Cuentos capturados

por Bill Tiepelman

Whispers in the Pumpkin Patch

The Lantern Opens Autumn had clicked its amber dimmer switch to “moody,” and the forest complied with cinematic enthusiasm. Leaves rehearsed their slow-motion exits, a choir of crickets tuned up like tiny violinists, and somewhere a raven practiced saying “Nevermore” with a Midwestern accent. In the center of a mossy clearing sat a remarkable thing: a pumpkin so wide and clear it looked like a lantern blown from syrupy glass, its skin veined with gold like a map of forgotten rivers. The local woodland creatures called it The Lantern, and on the first week of October it opened, like it always did, with the soft sound of a zipper and the even softer sound of a secret. Inside, on a couch of crunchy leaves, perched Hazel the red squirrel—freelance acorn broker, part-time nest architect, full-time snack philosopher. Across from her: Pip the field mouse, a half-button of a person with the metabolism of a blender. Between them lounged mini pumpkins like tasteful ottomans, and at the far wall of The Lantern, a tall stem curved like a question mark, as if the pumpkin itself were curious how two very small mammals had come to treat it like a studio apartment. “You smell like cinnamon sin,” Pip said, nose twitching. “Spice brunch? Again?” “It’s called seasonal living,” Hazel replied, combing her tail with a twig. “Besides, a barista owed me. I did a consultation on their nut milk strategy. Whole thing was a disaster—no actual nuts. Fraudulent vibes.” Pip tugged at a leaf blanket, fashioning it into a cape he believed flattered his shoulders. “I worry about you when the pumpkin spice returns. It makes you ambitious.” “Ambition is a harvest décor,” Hazel said, air-quoting with two tiny paws. “Looks good on the mantle of the soul.” They were not alone in The Lantern. Whispers lived in there too—thin, musical threads of rumor that floated up when the October light struck just so. The Whispers told stories of enchanted forests, woodland friends, and pumpkin patches that grew where moonbeams spilled and gossip seeded. Some said the Whispers were the ghosts of last year’s leaves. Others said they were the mood swings of the wind. Hazel suspected they were marketing: the forest’s ad team making sure fall remained the most successful brand on the calendar. Outside, the clearing glowed like a candle flickering in a cathedral. A chill walked through the trees wearing a scarf. The Lantern’s inner walls filmed with warm condensation; every little breath drew constellations on glass. One breath—longer, colder—made both Hazel and Pip freeze. They heard a crunch that wasn’t leaf play. They heard laughter that wasn’t the creek. Then three faint knocks, as polite as a librarian but as certain as rent. Hazel’s ears tilted. “Did October order company?” “If it’s the raccoon,” Pip whispered, “tell him we already donated to his band.” The knocks repeated. Hazel scampered to the opening and peered through a curtain of hanging autumn leaves. There, on a stump like a dessert stand, stood a figure in a cloak the color of late afternoon. The hood fell back to reveal a woman with maple-syrup hair and eyes that caught starlight while the sun was still up. Her smile held a little mischief and a PhD in promises. Humans were rare here; stylish humans were rarer still. “Hello in the pumpkin,” the woman said. “Is this the residence of Hazel, Pip, and assorted woodland wall art?” “We prefer ‘gallery-ready rodent muses,’” Hazel said, stepping out with her best executive posture. “Who asks?” “Marigold Moon,” the woman answered, “curator of seasonal spectacles, dealer in tasteful enchantments, part-time witch. I’m recruiting talent for a little Halloween project and your address came highly whispered.” Pip’s whiskers twanged like banjo strings. “We don’t perform without snacks.” “Obviously,” Marigold said, producing a tin embossed with tiny pumpkins. She opened it; the clearing smelled like golden autumn light and bad decisions in a bakery. “Maple-glazed pepitas. Vegan, gluten-free, morally superior.” Pip levitated, spiritually if not physically. “I could be persuaded to audition.” Hazel folded her arms, which were very tiny arms now doing very big business. “What’s the gig?” Marigold set down a velvet folio. It unfurled itself, revealing a sketch: a parade that wound through the forest like a ribbon on gift wrap. Pumpkins of every architecture rolled on wagons, candles beamed from their bellies, and at the front marched a small, proud mouse in a leaf cape, beside a squirrel with a crown of twigs, both carrying a banner that read Whispers in the Pumpkin Patch. “The Harvest Night Walk,” Marigold said. “It’s part costume ball, part fairytale art exhibit, part extremely Instagrammable civic ritual. I need Grand Marshals who understand the vibe: whimsical, a touch silly, a touch spooky, and deeply photogenic. Think fall wall art but ambulatory.” Hazel coughed in a way that suggested she owned two capes and a publicist. “And compensation?” “An honorarium in currency of your choosing,” Marigold said. “Acorns, sunflower seeds, artisanal bread crumbs—plus… a wish.” “A wish?” Pip asked, already reaching for a second handful of pepitas. “A small one,” Marigold clarified, “nothing that collapses economies. The forest grants it at midnight if your parade delights even the owls.” Hazel and Pip exchanged a look that could out-negotiate a fox. A wish, even a small one, could buy a lot of winter. It could buy a roof of evergreen needles that didn’t leak, or an immunity passport against cats, or the ability to detect stale nuts from twenty paces. It could also buy, Hazel admitted privately, an excuse to be splendid in public. “We accept,” Hazel said, sticking out a paw with CEO velocity. “Contingent upon creative control.” Marigold shook with ceremony. “You’ll have it. Meet me tomorrow at sunset by the old cider press. We’ll do fittings and test the choreography.” “Choreography?” Pip squeaked. “Just a light prance,” Marigold said. “Maybe a twirl near the pumpkin patch. Nothing to alarm your therapist.” She replaced her hood and added, almost as an afterthought, “Avoid the northern path tonight. The gourds are restless.” “Restless?” Hazel asked, bristling. “Like… politically?” “Like they’ve been whispering to the wrong moon.” Marigold tapped The Lantern twice with two knuckles; it hummed like a contented kettle. “Lovely venue. Keep it warm.” And with that she walked away, cloak licking the ground like a campfire. Pip popped a pepita and stared after her until she melted into trees the color of tea. “A wish,” he said softly. “Imagine the practicalities. I could ask for a pantry that refills itself every time I say ‘snack.’” “You could also ask for discipline,” Hazel offered. “Rude,” Pip said, brushing leaf crumbs from his cape. “What would you ask for?” Hazel looked up. The sky was the exact shade of storybook dusk, pulled tight as velvet. Owls test-hooted like audio techs before a show. In the glassy curve of The Lantern, Hazel saw herself: a small creature with a big tail and bigger appetite for spectacle. “Maybe… a little reputation,” she said. “A signature moment. Something that gets whispered next year too.” “Oh good,” Pip said, relieved. “I thought you’d say ‘immortality’ and I’d have to explain the storage issues.” They worked late, drafting parade logistics with burnt sticks on the pumpkin floor. Hazel designed banner typography that would make raccoons stop scrolling. Pip curated a snack route with the precision of a sommelier. They tried on roles: Hazel as the Torch of Autumn, Pip as the Squeak of State. Outside, the clearing settled; a fox walked by like a shadow on stilts, the moon rose wearing cloud mascara, and The Lantern exhaled its gentle glassy breath. That was when the first wrong whisper arrived. It slipped through the opening like a cold ribbon, saying something in a language the leaves did not usually speak. Hazel’s fur prickled. Pip’s ears flattened. The whisper smelled faintly of iron kettles and wet rope. It turned the candleflame inside The Lantern into a thin blue blade. “Did you hear that?” Pip asked, voice a paper cut. Hazel nodded. “It said… ‘hollow follows.’” “Is that poetry?” “Worse,” Hazel said. “It’s foreshadowing.” Another whisper came, then three, then the forest seemed to breathe in through its teeth. Outside, along the northern path Marigold had told them to avoid, a dozen pumpkins rolled into the clearing, not on wagons but under their own agency. Their stems were stiff as thorns; their carved mouths were attempts at smiles made by someone who had never seen one. Blue fire smoldered in their eyes like bad ideas trying to become policy. Pip grabbed Hazel’s paw. “Tell me this is performance art.” “If it is,” Hazel said, “the reviews will be mixed.” The lead pumpkin stopped an inch from The Lantern and split a jagged grin. From inside that grin came a voice like a root snapping: “Hollow follows.” Something tapped the glass wall. The Lantern shivered. The Whispers shrank back to the corners like shy cats. Hazel lifted her chin; Pip lifted his leaf cape as if it were armor. Somewhere, deeper in the trees, an owl cleared its throat… and laughed. “Okay,” Hazel said, eyes narrowing to espresso shots. “We can still fix this. We just need—” The Lantern’s inner candle guttered. The clearing’s light fell out of itself, and for a heartbeat the whole forest went dark, like an audience holding its breath. The Hollow Follows Darkness in a forest is different from darkness in a bedroom. In a bedroom, there are walls, blankets, maybe a cat who insists on standing on your sternum like a hairy gargoyle. In a forest, however, darkness has infinite doors and each one creaks open at once. Hazel’s tail bushed out to the size of a feather duster in a panic. Pip clung to it as if his friendship came with Velcro. The Hollow Pumpkins out in the clearing pulsed with that eerie blue light, their jagged grins like dentists who went to art school instead of dental school. “Okay,” Pip squeaked, pulling his cape around himself, “this is fine. Everything’s fine. Pumpkins can’t move. Pumpkins shouldn’t move. Pumpkins—” “Are moving,” Hazel interrupted flatly. “We’re living in an aggressive still-life.” The lead Hollow Pumpkin thunked against The Lantern with a noise like a wet drum. From its maw came a chant: “Hollow follows… hollow follows…” The other gourds joined in, their voices overlapping into a chilling choir. It was like Halloween caroling, if the carolers had been possessed by a demonic Home & Garden Network. “I knew this was foreshadowing!” Hazel barked, pacing tight circles. “Never trust whispers in October. They always come with sequels.” Pip peeked through the glass wall, whiskers trembling. “They look like they want to audition too.” “They look like they want to eat the stage,” Hazel countered. At that moment, The Lantern itself groaned. A line of cracks spiderwebbed across its glowing skin. Warm candlelight bled into the night. The Whispers inside scattered like startled pigeons, tumbling up toward the ceiling. Then—just as Hazel started mentally drafting her obituary—a sharp clap cut through the air. The Hollow Pumpkins froze like kids caught doodling on the walls with crayons. From the shadows stepped Marigold Moon, cloak shimmering like it was woven out of hot cider steam. Her hands sparkled with rings that hummed like tuning forks. “Bad gourds!” she snapped, wagging a finger. “Back to your patch!” The Hollow Pumpkins hesitated, their eyes flickering, their mouths grinding. Marigold raised both arms, and her cloak billowed like a stage curtain caught in gossip. With a swirl, she tossed a handful of what looked suspiciously like candy corn. The candy hissed as it hit the ground, turning into tiny glowing barriers. The pumpkins groaned, recoiling as if the candy corn were holy water in triangular form. Hazel’s jaw dropped. “You weaponized candy corn?” “Of course,” Marigold said, brushing off her sleeves. “The most divisive candy in existence. Pumpkins hate it.” “So do half of humans,” Pip muttered. “It tastes like wax pretending to be sugar.” “That’s what makes it powerful,” Marigold replied. With a hiss, the Hollow Pumpkins retreated, rolling themselves back into the northern path like sulky bowling balls. Their chant died away into the night. The clearing settled again, and The Lantern shivered back into calm. The cracks on its wall sealed, almost as though ashamed they had overreacted. Hazel clutched her chest. “That was not in the contract.” “Consider it rehearsal,” Marigold said calmly, flicking the last candy corn from her palm. “If you want the Grand Marshal gig, you’ll need to prove you can handle restless gourds. The Hollow crowd always tries to crash the parade.” Pip blinked. “You’re telling me… this wasn’t a freak accident?” Marigold smirked. “Every season has its politics. Fall’s is gourds. There are traditional pumpkins, ornamental pumpkins, and then the hollows—feral pumpkins who believe in chaos, blue fire, and badly executed dental work. They follow the moon’s wrong whispers and hate order. Which is to say—they hate parades.” “Well, too bad,” Hazel said, tail flicking like a sabre. “This parade will happen. If I have to crown myself Queen of Autumn Snacks and lead it with nothing but sheer squirrel audacity, I’ll do it.” “And snacks,” Pip added. “Don’t forget the snacks. The snacks are non-negotiable.” Marigold nodded approvingly. “Good. You’ll need bravado. And choreography. Tomorrow, sunset. Don’t be late.” She snapped her fingers and disappeared into a curl of smoke that smelled faintly of caramel apples and sass. Hazel collapsed against a miniature pumpkin. “I should have asked more questions before signing that deal.” Pip curled up beside her, still clutching his leaf cape. “What would you even wish for, Hazel, if we survive this?” Hazel stared at the glowing walls of The Lantern, listening to the Whispers stitch themselves back together. “Something permanent. Something bigger than acorns. Something that makes every squirrel who ever doubted me whisper my name when they smell cinnamon.” Pip yawned. “I’ll settle for not being eaten by an angry jack-o’-lantern. Ambition is exhausting.” But neither of them slept easily. Outside, in the distance, the Hollow Pumpkins regrouped. Their blue fire glowed faintly through the northern trees, a reminder that not even a witch’s candy corn could hold them forever. And far above, the moon bent close to listen… and whispered again. It said: “Tomorrow, the Hollow follows faster.” The Parade of Peculiarities The next evening, the forest looked like it had raided every Pinterest board titled “Fall Vibes.” Golden light dripped through the canopy like warm honey, bats were already gossiping in spirals, and the smell of spiced cider rolled through the trees as if the wind itself had gotten tipsy. The Lantern gleamed brighter than ever, polished by Hazel’s furious determination and Pip’s slightly less furious snacking breaks. Tonight was parade night, and they were ready—well, ready-ish. Hazel wore a crown made from twigs, acorns, and one particularly shiny candy wrapper she claimed was “avant-garde.” Pip had upgraded his leaf cape with a brooch made of a bottle cap and a dandelion puff. Between them stretched a hand-painted banner that read in glittering walnut ink: Whispers in the Pumpkin Patch. The Whispers themselves floated along the edges, swirling like streamers, chanting affirmations such as “Yaaas queen squirrel” and “Snack responsibly.” As the procession began, woodland creatures of every fluff and fang lined the mossy path. Owls hooted in baritone harmony. Rabbits tapped out drumlines with carrots. Even the raccoon band showed up, playing what sounded suspiciously like ska but no one wanted to start that argument again. For a glorious ten minutes, Hazel and Pip led the forest in the most whimsical, silly, and faintly chaotic parade autumn had ever produced. Hazel twirled with CEO gravitas; Pip pranced with snack-induced swagger. The forest glowed like a cathedral filled with jack-o’-lanterns and laughter. And then—of course—the Hollows came back. They rolled from the northern path like a pumpkin stampede, eyes blazing blue, jagged mouths cackling in rhythm. Their chant thundered louder than before: “Hollow follows, hollow follows!” The forest trembled. Chipmunks fainted into decorative gourds. The raccoon trombonist hit a sour note and blamed it on “the vibes.” Hazel didn’t flinch. She raised her twig crown high. “Pip,” she said, “deploy the emergency stash.” Pip’s eyes went wide. “You don’t mean—” “Yes,” Hazel hissed. “The candy corn reserves.” From beneath the banner, Pip produced a burlap sack the size of his entire torso. With a grunt that sounded like a mouse swearing in Latin, he hurled it into the path of the oncoming pumpkins. The bag burst open, spilling a cascade of neon triangles. Candy corn skittered across the ground like cursed confetti. The Hollow Pumpkins screeched in unison, rolling back and forth as if stepping on Legos barefoot. Blue fire sputtered, their grins cracked, and several of them toppled into each other like incompetent bowling pins. Marigold Moon appeared atop the cider press, clapping slowly with theatrical menace. “Well done, darlings. You’ve survived the test.” With a swirl of her cloak, the forest itself seemed to exhale. The Hollows, groaning, melted back into the shadows, muttering something about dental insurance. Silence returned, broken only by the sound of Pip chewing the victory snacks. Hazel collapsed onto a stump, tail still fluffed like an angry feather boa. “That was not a light prance.” “But it was a performance,” Marigold said, descending gracefully. She snapped her fingers, and the Whispers circled Hazel and Pip like golden ribbons. “The owls are delighted, the audience is charmed, and the forest is buzzing. You’ve earned your honorarium. Name your wish.” Pip didn’t hesitate. “An endless snack pantry!” Marigold’s eyebrow arched. “Small wish, remember?” Pip thought fast. “Fine. A pouch that’s always got one more pepita inside.” “Done.” She handed him a tiny leather pouch, which jingled with snack infinity. Pip nearly fainted from joy. Hazel took a deep breath, her crown slightly askew but her eyes sharper than ever. “I want a reputation. A legacy. I want whispers of me to travel every fall, from the crunch of the first leaf to the last sip of cider. I want to be the squirrel that autumn itself name-drops at parties.” Marigold smiled, sly as a secret recipe. “Ambitious… but clever.” She tapped Hazel’s chest gently. “Then every fall, when the leaves change, your name will ride on the whispers. Children will hear stories of the squirrel who defied the Hollow Pumpkins. Artists will paint you into their autumn skies. And squirrels—everywhere—will pause over their acorns and think, Hazel did it first.” Hazel blinked, her whiskers trembling. “You mean… I’m folklore now?” “Not yet,” Marigold said. “But after a few more parades…” She winked, then dissolved into cider-scented smoke, leaving behind only the faintest whisper: “See you next October.” The parade resumed, smaller but brighter. Hazel marched with her twig crown gleaming, Pip strutted with his infinite snack pouch, and the forest erupted into cheers. The Whispers swirled like confetti, calling her name into the crisp night air: Hazel, Hazel, Hazel. High above, the moon leaned in, listening, and for once it whispered back—not hollow, but whole. And so it was that a squirrel, a mouse, and a glassy pumpkin lantern gave autumn its new legend. Each year, when the first chill arrives and the pumpkin spice flows like questionable wine, listen closely. The whispers in the pumpkin patch might just be gossiping about Hazel and Pip—heroes of snacks, defenders of décor, and Grand Marshals of whimsy forevermore.     Bring the magic of Hazel, Pip, and The Lantern into your home. Whether you love the autumn coziness, the whimsical storytelling, or the mischievous charm of woodland folklore, you can carry a piece of Whispers in the Pumpkin Patch with you. Hang the tale on your walls with a Framed Print or a rustic Wood Print that glows with autumn warmth. Carry their adventure to the market (and the pumpkin patch) with a sturdy Tote Bag. Or share the legend with friends through a charming Greeting Card—perfect for Halloween, Thanksgiving, or just whispering a little autumn magic to someone special. Let the story live beyond the page, bringing laughter, warmth, and a touch of whimsy into your world every season.

por Bill Tiepelman

Fairytales in the Making

The Wand Chooses the Whisker The evening arrived the way good stories do: with a thunk. Specifically, the thunk of an ancient spellbook landing on an even older wooden floor, followed by a puff of pale glitter that smelled faintly of cinnamon toast and improbable ideas. Across from the book sat a girl in a pink lace dress and a wizard hat bravely decorated with stars that looked like they’d auditioned for the moon and gotten a call-back. She held a wand that was definitely not a toy, if only because toys rarely hum in three keys at once or negotiate overtime for miracles. Beside the book, perched on a small stool with the solemn dignity of a tiny emperor, was yours truly—Marzipan, an adorably ferocious white kitten with junior dragon credentials: soft wings, a starter tail, and the sort of eyes that make adults say, “We can’t possibly take that home,” while already googling “cat-safe enchanted litter.” You might be thinking: “A kitten with wings? That’s a phase.” First, rude. Second, phases are for the moon; I’m a lifestyle. I’m also the narrator because the spellbook insists on doing only union-approved exposition and the wand refuses to monologue without stunt pay. Besides, you want the whisker-level view. Trust me. I’m close to the ground, but professionally lofty. This is a tale about magic and wonder, the power of imagination, and the surprisingly complex logistics of fitting a dragon personality into a housecat chassis. (We’ll get to doorframes. And curtains. RIP curtains.) The girl—her name is Wren, and yes, like the bird, which is confusing for a cat and terrible for my therapist—leaned closer, her hat brim forming a rosy eclipse. “Ready?” she whispered, and the wand brightened to a star-core spark. Sparks are like opinions: harmless in moderation, catastrophic near parchment. The spellbook fluttered in alarm until Wren patted its margin like a skittish horse. Pages calmed. Letters rearranged themselves, lining up into neat little ranks like toy soldiers who have just been told they’re going to war against dust. Here’s the first rule of responsible enchantment (and excellent wall décor): Frame the moment before it frames you. Wren did exactly that. She shifted the book a finger-width, angled the stool, and squared the wand so the light fell in a golden triangle—girl, book, beast—like a perfectly staged fantasy scene artwork. It wasn’t vanity; it was geometry. Magic is picky. If the composition tilts wrong, the spell comes out as lukewarm tea or, worse, paperwork. We were here for wow, not warranty forms. “By the glitter of small brave things,” Wren intoned, “by whisker and wing and a really good nap, reveal the dragon you want to be.” She looked at me, and the look said everything: I know what the world sees; let’s show them what it can’t yet imagine. The star at her wand-tip pulsed. A soft aurora spilled into the room, drifting over floorboards that had seen more birthdays than the moon knows how to count. The air smelled like comet sugar and warm library. Dust motes signed NDAs and turned into constellations. Above my little emperor head, a dragon-outline took shape—luminous, playful, slightly dramatic. (We share traits.) I won’t exaggerate. Okay, I will, but only where necessary. The light kissed my ears. It threaded my fur like spun silver. It ran its curious fingers along my rookery of dreams, tasting the places where kitten ends and dragon begins. I felt bigger—not taller, but roomier, as if my ribcage were a cathedral for bell-notes I hadn’t learned to ring. The wings—usually decorative unless someone opens tuna—stretched with a silky shiver. The tail (still on probation) traced a tidy question mark in the air, which is appropriate, because questions are how the universe preheats. “Marzipan,” Wren said, “this is only practice.” Her voice had the authority of a lighthouse and the softness of a bedtime promise. Adults underestimate bedtime promises. They’re tiny contracts with amazement. She guided the wand in a slow circle. The star sang a note that made the book’s leather sigh and the room’s shadows scoot politely aside. The shimmering dragon—my possibly-future, possibly-now—tilted its head as if to say, Nice to meet me. I chirped. (Dragons roar; kittens chirp. We’re working on it.) The sound threaded through the spell, and the aurora brightened. Somewhere, a curtain surrendered. My wings caught a draft of not-quite-wind, the way hope sometimes inflates your chest while your feet are still figuring out the memo. For a breathless second, I left the stool by the scientific distance of three crumbs and a rumor. Wren gasped. I landed—gracefully if you’re generous, hilariously if you’re sentient—and pretended that had been the plan. Sassy dignity is ninety percent pretending it was the plan. Listen, dear reader, collector, daydreaming adult who knows that a home needs at least one piece of whimsical fantasy art to keep the dust honest: there’s a reason we start with practice. Magic is a muscle, and imagination is the gym membership you actually use. Tonight, we were lifting small wonders. Tomorrow, we might bench-press the moon (ethically). For now, the goal was simple: hold the pose, make the light, and let the moment become a photograph the heart doesn’t forget, the kind you frame over a reading chair and point to when guests ask, “Is that a kitten with dragon wings?” and you say, “Obviously,” as if obviousness were a type of courage. The star dimmed to a smolder. The dragon-outline hovered like a possibility deciding whether to land. Wren smiled—mischief with a bow on it. “Again?” she asked. The spellbook rustled its pages into applause. I adjusted my tail, lifted my whiskers, and summoned my best legend-in-training face. The wand lifted. The room held its breath. And somewhere beyond the rafters, the universe leaned in like a friend with tea saying, “Tell me everything.” The Curtain Conspiracy You know how some nights feel like the universe has RSVP’d early and showed up with hors d'oeuvres made of starlight? This was one of those. The dragon-outline above my head shimmered like a soap bubble that had majored in theatrics. Its wings stretched wider, its glow reflected in Wren’s big curious eyes, and for the record, I looked spectacular. Not “cute kitten with a gimmick” spectacular, but “if Da Vinci had painted a housecat after three glasses of enchanted wine” spectacular. Naturally, nobody took a picture. Humans. Always trusting memory like it’s not leaky as a colander in a rainstorm. “Stay still,” Wren whispered, as if I were a nervous ballerina. Which was adorable, because kittens and ballerinas share exactly one thing: the inability to resist twirling when provoked. My whiskers tingled with the vibration of her spell. The wand hummed like it had downloaded a suspiciously large software update. The spellbook’s pages quivered, their letters leaning out like nosy neighbors over the hedge. This was art in the making—not polished, not framed, but wild, alive, and un-housebroken. Then came the curtains. Curtains, dear reader, are the sworn enemies of magic. They hang there, smug, pretending to frame windows when their real hobby is strangling fledgling miracles. As my dragon-shadow flexed its magnificent phantom wings, one little arc of energy snagged the hem of a paisley drape and—whoosh—ignited the entire panel in a shimmer that smelled like bubblegum and embarrassment. It didn’t burn. Oh no, nothing so simple. It started dancing. Yes, dancing. A two-step shimmy, complete with sways and the occasional pirouette. “Marzipan!” Wren hissed. Which was unfair, because frankly it wasn’t my fault the curtains lacked professional discipline. But fine. I puffed myself up, wings out, tail curled like a punctuation mark, and chirped a single commanding note. The aurora above me pulsed in agreement. The curtains froze mid-shimmy, blushing an apologetic shade of rose. Then they collapsed into ordinary fabric again, flopping like teenagers caught sneaking back past curfew. “Better,” Wren said, lowering her wand slightly. Her grin betrayed her tone: she was delighted. She always was when magic misbehaved, because that’s when the story got good. If you’ve ever been an adult trying to explain why your living room contains charred drapery and a kitten who looks suspiciously like he’s hiding a flamethrower in his fur, you understand: these are the anecdotes that build reputations. Let’s pause here and acknowledge something important. Magic is 40% ritual, 30% imagination, 20% chaos, and 10% snacks. Without snacks, things get feral. Tonight’s snack of choice was a saucer of milk balanced on a nearby shelf, a decoy offered to distract me should the spell grow too interesting. Rookie mistake. Milk is a beverage; chaos is a calling. Wren turned a page in the spellbook. The parchment whispered. The letters rearranged themselves again, but this time, instead of tidy little ranks, they became doodles—spirals, stars, one rude caricature of me that made my ears look like satellite dishes. “Don’t look at that,” I mewed. She ignored me, tracing the spirals with her finger. The wand glowed brighter, matching her focus. Imagination feeding magic feeding imagination. A feedback loop of whimsy. Dangerous. Delicious. The dragon-outline thickened. No longer a suggestion, but a half-sketched reality. Its scales glittered like someone spilled diamonds over midnight. Its tail brushed the rafters, leaving trails of neon-green afterlight. Its eyes blinked open, two lanterns of golden curiosity. And the funniest thing? It looked exactly like me—if I’d been upgraded to “Boss Level.” Same smug whisker tilt. Same sly tail flick. Same general aura of “Yes, I deserve fan mail.” Wren squealed softly. She clapped her hands, which nearly broke the spell (never clap near active magic, folks, unless you want applause from dimensions you didn’t invite). “It’s working!” she said. Her hat slipped sideways. The dragon-shadow cocked its head like a critic evaluating the performance. Then it winked at me. Yes, winked. Nothing chills a kitten’s blood quite like being winked at by your hypothetical glow-in-the-dark doppelgänger. I bolted. Not far—just across the floor to the safety of an overturned shoebox. My wings flared, my tail lashed, and my pride leaked out like glitter from a party bag. Wren giggled. “Don’t be shy,” she said. Easy for her; her doppelgänger wasn’t about to unionize and demand equal cuddles. The spellbook flapped impatiently, pages flickering like an angry bird. Its margins scribbled notes to itself: stabilize resonance, feed imagination, don’t let curtains unionize again. Wren nodded sagely, as though she’d understood any of that. Then she raised the wand high, the star at its tip swelling to a miniature sun. Shadows scattered to the corners. Dust motes rearranged into a polite audience. The room became a stage. We were the players. And the story—our story—was stretching its wings. I crept forward again, cautiously. The dragon-shadow lowered its glowing head, meeting me eye to eye. We studied each other. Both smug. Both curious. Both knowing that someday, one of us would outgrow the other. Then, in a moment that made the air quiver like a plucked harp string, the dragon’s muzzle touched my forehead. Not physically, but in a shimmer that tingled like carbonated stars. A rush flooded me—warmth, vastness, mischief on an elemental scale. Suddenly, I didn’t just imagine being a dragon. I remembered it. Past lives, future selves, impossible stories, all stacked like teacups balanced by fate’s drunk uncle. Wren gasped. “Did you see that?” she whispered to no one in particular. The wand pulsed, echoing the bond. The spellbook scribbled furiously, quills squeaking. The curtains wisely stayed out of it this time. The dragon-shadow pulled back, leaving me dizzy with wonder and hungry for fish. (Magic always makes you crave fish. Don’t ask why.) And that’s how it began: not with fire or fury, but with curtains that couldn’t dance, a book that couldn’t shut up, a girl who wouldn’t quit, and a kitten—me—who discovered he was bigger on the inside. Which, if you’ve ever been underestimated, you know is the sweetest kind of revenge. The Spell That Forgot Its Manners Here’s the thing about spells: they’re like dinner guests. Some arrive on time with flowers and wine, others track mud across your rug and insist on rearranging the furniture. Tonight’s spell? Oh, it was definitely the latter. Wren’s wand pulsed brighter, the spellbook flapped with the dignity of a goose auditioning for Swan Lake, and the dragon-shadow decided it had opinions. Big ones. Opinions about furniture placement, household architecture, and the urgent need for ceiling renovations. My humble cottage-sized frame was not built for these negotiations, but apparently my doppelgänger dragon had a union card in cosmic redecorating. The rafters groaned. The dragon-shadow’s wings brushed them, leaving streaks of phosphorescent graffiti: looping symbols that looked suspiciously like “YOLO” in ancient runes. Wren squinted, trying to copy them into the spellbook, but the letters wriggled away like toddlers refusing bedtime. I sat in the center of the chaos, tail curled primly, watching with the smug satisfaction of a creature who knows he’s too adorable to be blamed for property damage. (Pro tip: always keep your whiskers immaculate during disasters; people will assume you’re innocent.) “Marzipan,” Wren said with that particular tone children reserve for unruly sidekicks, “you have to focus.” Which was rich, considering her hat had slipped so low she looked like a magical lampshade. Still, I narrowed my eyes and puffed out my chest. I chirped my most commanding chirp. The dragon-shadow rippled in acknowledgment, then flared brighter—so bright the milk on the shelf curdled into yogurt. A win, if you ask me. Breakfast for tomorrow: sorted. Then it happened. The spell got… ideas. Oh, dangerous ideas. The aurora swirled around the room, rearranging objects with giddy disobedience. The shoebox that had been my hiding fort? Floated upside down like a sulky balloon. The curtains (traitors) rose again, twirling into awkward ballroom poses. Even the saucer of milk performed a lazy pirouette before splashing its contents onto the spellbook’s corner. The book screeched like a librarian discovering you’ve dog-eared her favorite novel. Its margins flared crimson ink and scribbled furious curses at the dairy industry. Wren panicked for half a heartbeat—then laughed. Laughed like a child who just realized the universe wasn’t fragile, it was funny. That laugh bent the spell like sunlight through glass. The dragon-shadow folded its massive wings and tilted its head, listening. The aurora slowed its rampage, swirling instead into little ribbons of light that looped and twined through the room. They brushed against my fur, making me glow faintly like a smug night-light. Wren giggled harder, clutching her wand with one hand and her slipping hat with the other. “See? It’s not broken—it’s playful!” Playful. A dangerous word. Like “harmless prank” or “quick snack.” The ribbons of light, emboldened by her declaration, began forming shapes. First, simple things: stars, spirals, a giant fish (much appreciated). Then, more elaborate: a teacup, a bicycle, a unicorn whose horn looked suspiciously like a traffic cone. Finally, they attempted a human. Big mistake. The figure they wove stood lopsided, with too many elbows and a face like a potato that had joined a witness protection program. It waved at us. Wren waved back. I hissed. Look, imagination is fine, but I draw the line at nightmare potatoes. The potato-person collapsed back into sparks with a sigh of relief. Wren wiped tears of laughter from her cheeks. “Magic’s sense of humor,” she said breathlessly. “It’s just like mine!” Which was concerning, because her humor involved knock-knock jokes that ended in philosophical crises. Still, her joy tethered the wildness. The spell calmed, the light ribbons dissolving into cozy glows that lit the rafters like fairy lanterns. For a moment, the room felt like the inside of a snow globe someone had shaken with love instead of malice. That’s when the dragon-shadow spoke. Not words, exactly—more like a thought sneezed directly into my brain. You are small, but you are mine. Which was flattering, until it added: And also, I am you. Oh, lovely. Nothing like an identity crisis to spice up a Tuesday night. I tilted my head, trying to look wise, though I probably resembled a kitten deciding whether to chase lint or overthrow governments. Wren tilted her head the same way. For one dizzy second, we were a triangle of mimicry: girl, cat, dragon. The spellbook sulked. The curtains pretended not to exist. Magic is sticky. Once it decides you’re in, you don’t just walk away. You wade, you paddle, you sometimes drown with dignity. That night, as the dragon-shadow merged closer, I felt my bones hum with potential, my fur itch with stories yet unwritten, my tail twitch like a pen scribbling across cosmic parchment. Wren leaned toward me, her voice soft but strong: “Let’s not just make a spell, Marzipan. Let’s make a story.” And that was it. The curtains, the yogurt, the potato-person—they weren’t failures. They were chapters. Imagination’s bloopers reel. I purred. Deep, resonant, like a tiny engine tuning itself to destiny. The dragon-shadow purred too, which rattled the rafters and made the windows hum. Wren laughed again, wild and unafraid. Together, we weren’t just practicing magic—we were building a fairytale. One awkward, glowing, sassy mistake at a time. Lift-Off, or How Not to Redecorate a Ceiling The problem with spells that forget their manners is that they eventually remember other people’s bad habits. In this case, gravity. Or, more accurately, the lack of it. One moment, I was grooming my immaculate whiskers in preparation for destiny’s next close-up; the next, my paws left the floor with all the dignity of a helium balloon that accidentally joined Cirque du Soleil. My wings fluttered. Not gracefully—more like two feathered pancakes trying to escape a frying pan. Wren squealed, the wand flared, and suddenly the entire room was on a field trip to zero-G land. Chairs lifted first. The shoebox fort rotated lazily in midair like a confused moon. The spellbook levitated just enough to look smug, its pages fluttering as though it had always intended to fly (spoiler: it hadn’t). Then Wren herself rose, her pink lace dress blooming around her like a rebellious jellyfish. She clutched her wizard hat with both hands to keep it from deserting her forehead, which left her wand free to twirl in the air like a magical baton in a parade of chaos. As for me? I soared. And by “soared,” I mean: I collided with the rafters, rebounded off a floating curtain rod, and performed what critics will one day call the most undignified somersault in dragon-cat history. My dragon-shadow, of course, looked magnificent, gliding effortlessly through the air as if auditioning for the cover of “Winged Beasts Quarterly.” I mewed in protest. The shadow winked at me again. If smugness were combustible, the entire village would have gone up in flames. “Marzipan, flap!” Wren shouted between peals of laughter. Easy for her to say. She had arms. I had fuzzy panic and wings that refused to read the manual. Still, I tried. I flapped, once, twice. On the third attempt, something clicked—like when you finally figure out how to open a stubborn pickle jar but discover it contains glitter instead of pickles. My wings caught the enchanted air. I steadied. I glided. Graceful? Not yet. But less embarrassing than the shoebox, which had by now given up all dignity and was sulking near the ceiling fan. Wren giggled so hard she started spinning, dress and hair a pink comet around her. She was still clutching that hat like it contained state secrets. Her wand, free of supervision, flicked random sparks that turned dust motes into tiny glowfish. They darted around me, nipping at my tail, daring me to chase them. I obliged, of course. When enchanted fish challenge you, you don’t decline; you accept, with a hiss and a loop-de-loop that would make physics cry. Down below—though “down” was increasingly theoretical—the curtains decided to rebel again. This time, instead of dancing, they wrapped themselves into what can only be described as a smug parachute. They floated in slow motion, trying to look more elegant than me. (Fail.) Wren noticed, snorted, and whispered something under her breath. The curtains instantly turned plaid. Bright, hideous plaid. They drooped in humiliation. Small victories matter. The dragon-shadow, meanwhile, had grown bolder. Its outline thickened, its scales glowed like spilled starlight, and its wings filled the ceiling space until the rafters looked like toothpicks in a bonfire. Then, in a move that would later haunt my dreams, it lowered its massive claws and scooped Wren gently out of midair. She gasped, clinging tighter to her hat, dangling like a giddy pendant from the shimmering beast. “Marzipan! We’re flying!” she squealed. And we were. Sort of. She was. I was busy dodging glowfish, plaid curtains, and my own flapping tail. Still, in the periphery, I caught the shape of her grin: wide, fearless, the grin of someone who believes the world is bendable clay and she’s holding the wheel. That grin steadied me more than my wings ever could. For a heartbeat, I stopped flapping in panic and started gliding on purpose. The aurora currents held me. My paws stretched, my whiskers quivered. For the first time, I wasn’t just a kitten pretending. I was a dragon rehearsing. Of course, the ceiling had other opinions. Specifically, it cracked. A long, deliberate crack, like the house itself clearing its throat to say, “Excuse me, this is a rental.” Plaster snowed down. Wren shrieked with laughter instead of fear. The dragon-shadow roared silently, and the sound rattled my ribs though no one else heard it. The spellbook scribbled furious warnings in its margins, none of which Wren read. The shoebox, still sulking, spun in lazy protest. And me? I laughed too—or purred, or chirped, or whatever sound kittens make when they realize they’re having the time of their nine lives. And just as the rafters threatened to give way entirely, the spell shifted again. The dragon-shadow’s glow dimmed, the aurora slowed, and gravity remembered its job. Everything dropped—girl, book, shoebox, kitten. The landing was… let’s call it “collaborative.” Wren tumbled into a heap of curtains. The book thudded onto the floor with a groan. The shoebox collapsed into cardboard despair. And me? I landed squarely on Wren’s lap, tail high, whiskers perfect, pretending it had all gone according to plan. (Because dignity, my dear reader, is ninety percent pretending.) She laughed, hugging me tight despite the glitter still fizzing around us. “Best flight ever,” she declared. The wand, lying beside her, gave one last tired spark of agreement. And just like that, the room went still—except for the faint outline of the dragon-shadow above us, watching, waiting, patient as tomorrow. Neighbors, Nonsense, and Negotiations with Destiny If you’ve ever lived in a village where everyone knows when you sneeze—and three people knit you a scarf about it—you understand that Wren’s magical rehearsal wasn’t exactly a private affair. The flight, the curtains, the plaster, the aurora glow that briefly turned the roof into a nightclub for stars—it all carried through the night like a gossip with wings. Which meant that, predictably, there was a knock at the door. A polite knock. Then an impatient one. Then a third knock that clearly implied someone better explain why the moon just tap-danced on our chimney. Wren froze, still tangled in plaid curtains. I froze too, mostly because my fur was still fizzing with leftover sparkles and I resembled a living snow globe. The spellbook, however, took initiative. It slid across the floor, pages flapping, until it positioned itself by the door like a bouncer. On its open page, angry red letters scrawled themselves: Not Now. Destiny in Progress. The knock grew louder. Then came a muffled voice: “Miss Wren? Are you… hosting comets in there again?” It was Mrs. Thistlebloom, the neighbor famous for her pies, her unsolicited advice, and her suspicion that dragons were just overgrown pigeons with better PR. Wren’s eyes widened. “Don’t answer,” she whispered. The book snapped its cover shut in agreement. I, of course, chirped at the door. Because I am a cat, and therefore contractually obligated to ruin stealth with cuteness. Mrs. Thistlebloom pushed the door open anyway. It creaked ominously, revealing her silhouette framed by moonlight. She sniffed. Her nose twitched. Her spectacles glinted. Behind her waddled her corgi, Bumbles, whose default expression was “I know your secrets and I disapprove.” The corgi froze, his stubby tail stiffening as his eyes landed on me—glowing faintly, wings twitching, tail leaving streaks of aurora on the floor. He barked. Once. Loud enough to make the curtains flinch. “Oh, heavens,” Mrs. Thistlebloom muttered. “Not again.” She stepped inside, brushing past the spellbook, which scribbled Entry Denied on her shoes. She ignored it. Her gaze flicked from the cracked ceiling, to the sulking shoebox, to Wren in her pink lace dress and starry hat, to me perched like destiny’s mascot. “You’ve been dabbling.” She said it like dabbling was one step short of felony arson. Wren scrambled upright, clutching me to her chest like I was Exhibit A in her defense case. “It was practice!” she squeaked. Her hat flopped sideways for emphasis. “And look—Marzipan is fine!” I nodded, whiskers immaculate. (Presentation matters in court.) The dragon-shadow loomed faintly above us, pretending to be an innocent chandelier. Mrs. Thistlebloom sighed, the sigh of someone who had once been young and foolish and was now older, wiser, and only slightly jealous. “Magic has rules, Wren. And rules have neighbors.” Her eyes softened, though, when she looked at me. “But I’ll admit… the wings suit him.” Bumbles growled in disagreement, clearly plotting a strongly worded letter to the village council. Before Wren could argue, the spellbook flipped open again, this time scribbling frantically: ATTENTION. IMPORTANT. STORY ARC APPROACHING. The letters glowed gold, then rearranged themselves into a crude cartoon of a pie. Then another of a dragon. Then—oh gods—a dragon eating a pie. Wren blinked. I licked my lips. Mrs. Thistlebloom clutched her handbag like the book had just revealed state secrets. And then the smell hit us. Warm, buttery, impossible. The scent of pie—real pie, not imaginary light-ribbon pie—drifted into the room. I don’t mean a hint. I mean the kind of aroma that seizes your nose, rewires your priorities, and whispers, forget destiny, you need a fork. My wings fluttered involuntarily. Wren’s stomach growled like a distant thunderstorm. Even the dragon-shadow perked up, its luminous nostrils flaring. Mrs. Thistlebloom blinked. “That’s not mine,” she said nervously. Which meant, logically, it was magic. Wild, wandering, pie-scented magic. The spellbook underlined its pie doodle three times, then scrawled in big shimmering letters: QUEST ACCEPTED. Wren gasped, clapping her hands. “A quest!” she cried. Her eyes glittered, hat bobbing. “Marzipan, this is it! The story’s next chapter!” She looked down at me, as if I were a seasoned knight rather than a kitten who’d just failed basic flight training. I purred anyway. What else was I going to do—say no to pie? Mrs. Thistlebloom groaned. “Don’t drag me into this nonsense.” She turned to leave, but Bumbles refused to move, glaring at me like a canine prosecutor. The dragon-shadow, however, loomed larger, casting its glow across the room until even the corgi stopped growling. Something in the air shifted—bigger than pie, bigger than plaster cracks. The sense that imagination had just written us a blank check and was waiting to see how recklessly we’d cash it. And in that silence, Wren whispered the words that stitched destiny into comedy, wonder, and chaos all at once: “Let’s follow the pie.” The Pastry at the End of the Rainbow If destiny ever wants to lure you out of bed at midnight, it won’t bother with trumpets or angels. It’ll just bake. The buttery perfume of pie wafted through the village, tugging us like invisible strings. Wren marched ahead, pink lace dress swishing, wizard hat slightly crooked but proud. I padded beside her, wings twitching with anticipation, tail arched like an exclamation mark. Behind us waddled Bumbles the corgi, sighing like he’d been roped into babysitting delinquents, while the spellbook floated indignantly at shoulder height, pages snapping like castanets. Above us, the dragon-shadow stretched across rooftops, silent, shimmering, equal parts guardian and neon sign flashing “THIS WILL ESCALATE.” The trail of scent led us down cobblestone alleys, past lampposts that hummed suspiciously with magic, past shutters that cracked open just enough for sleepy villagers to mutter, “Oh lord, she’s at it again.” Wren ignored them, because when pie is destiny, reputation is optional. Finally, we turned a corner and found it: sitting on a wooden crate in the middle of the square, bathed in moonlight, was The Pie. Not a normal pie. No, this was a capital-P Pastry. Golden crust gleaming like treasure, filling that shimmered between apple, cherry, and something that might have been starlight pudding. Steam rose in curling ribbons that spelled rude jokes in cursive. It radiated power, promise, and calories. My whiskers twitched. Wren’s eyes widened. Even Bumbles, traitor that he was, whimpered in longing. The spellbook trembled, flipping open to reveal one massive glowing word: BOSS BATTLE. Because of course. Of course the pie wasn’t unattended. With a dramatic whoosh, the shadows behind the crate coalesced into a figure: tall, cloaked, radiating the kind of energy that says “I have a master’s degree in ominous entrances.” The hood fell back, revealing—oh irony—a baker. A very cross baker, flour on his cheeks, apron flapping like battle armor. “You’ve meddled,” he intoned, voice rumbling like a sourdough starter left too long. “This pie is not for the likes of you.” Wren tilted her chin, wand raised. “Everything’s for the likes of us,” she said sassily. The dragon-shadow above us flared brighter, filling the square with light. I strutted forward, puffing my chest, wings wide. If he wanted intimidation, fine—I’d give him adorable menace. The baker hesitated. For one fatal second, he underestimated me. Rookie mistake. I pounced. Not on him, of course—I’m not reckless. On the pie. My tiny paw smacked the crust, releasing a puff of cinnamon starlight so strong it sent the baker staggering back. Wren shouted a spell. The wand glowed, hurling a wave of giggles so powerful the cobblestones themselves chuckled. The dragon-shadow roared, rattling windows, a soundless thunder that pinned the baker in place. He flailed, apron strings tangling, while Bumbles (at long last useful) bit him firmly on the boot. The spellbook scribbled furiously, quills squeaking, until the page declared: VICTORY, WITH SNACKS. And just like that, the battle was over. The baker dissolved into flour dust, swept away by the night breeze, leaving only the crate, the moon, and The Pie. Wren approached reverently, lifting it with both hands. “Marzipan,” she whispered, “this is our proof. Magic isn’t just rules and ceilings and crabby neighbors. It’s joy. It’s laughter. It’s pie that smells like galaxies.” She set it down on the cobblestone, broke it open, and steam billowed up in shapes—dragons, kittens, stories we hadn’t told yet. She tore off a piece of crust and offered it to me. I sniffed, nibbled, purred. It tasted like everything wonderful I hadn’t dared to believe I could be. It tasted like home. We feasted there in the square: girl, kitten, dragon-shadow, spellbook, corgi (begrudgingly fed crumbs), even the curtains, which floated in through the night breeze to claim a corner slice. Mrs. Thistlebloom peeked from her window, saw us glowing with wonder and pastry crumbs, and muttered, “Ridiculous,” though her eyes softened like sugar melting in tea. The village, lulled by the scent, dreamed sweeter dreams than it had in years. And me? I curled on Wren’s lap, wings folded, belly full, heart brighter than the stars. Maybe I wasn’t a full dragon yet. Maybe I was still small, still learning. But as the dragon-shadow settled above us like a constellation only we could see, I knew this: I was not just a kitten. I was imagination in fur. I was the story purring itself awake. And tomorrow, when Wren picked up her wand again, we’d make another mess, another miracle. Fairytales in the making.     If you’d like to bring a little of this magic into your own world, Fairytales in the Making is available as a collection of enchanting keepsakes and décor. Imagine this whimsical scene glowing on your wall as a framed print, shimmering as a vibrant metal print, or standing out as a richly textured canvas print. For those who prefer to carry their imagination with them, it can travel by your side as a charming tote bag, or even be tucked away in your thoughts and plans inside a spiral notebook. And when the day is done, nothing feels cozier than wrapping yourself in a story—quite literally—with the soft embrace of a fleece blanket featuring this artwork. Every piece is a reminder that wonder is not just something you read about—it’s something you live with, decorate with, and sometimes even nap under. Add a touch of magic to your home or gift it to a fellow dreamer. After all, fairytales are best when shared.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Hatchling Companions

The Day the Twins Discovered Trouble (and Each Other) On the morning the mountain sneezed, two baby dragons blinked awake beneath a quilt of warm moss and questionable decisions. The orange one—Ember—had a belly the color of toasted apricot jam and the perpetual expression of someone about to press a clearly labeled “Do Not Touch” button. The teal-and-violet one—Mistral—looked like moonlight caught in sea glass and wore mischief like eyeliner. They were not identical, but stares tended to rhyme around them: big glossy eyes, soft fangs, and tiny wings that whirred like gossip. They had hatched in the same minute—Ember three breaths early, Mistral three plans ahead. From the start they were a duet of bad ideas harmonized: Ember supplied sparkle and heat; Mistral supplied strategy and plausible deniability. Their nursery—an alcove of drippy crystals and dragonfruit peels—was quiet enough, but quiet is just potential energy in the hands of clever hatchlings. “We should practice our roars,” Ember announced, rolling his shoulders until scales flashed like copper coins. “For safety.” “Safety,” Mistral agreed, because she had already decided their roars would be more useful for negotiations with pastry vendors. She shrugged her little wings and the air picked up—just a flirty breeze, but it carried the smell of cinnamon from the village below. She liked cinnamon, and she liked the word below even more. They marched to the ledge like backpackers heading to a brunch reservation. Rows of stone terraces stretched down the mountain, dotted with market tents, steaming cauldrons, and the occasional goat scrawling rude messages in hoofprints. The twins practiced their roars once—twice—thrice. The echoes came back sounding taller than they were, which they both took personally. “We need… ambiance,” Mistral said, because ambiance is French for make it extra. She inhaled, tail curling, and exhaled a ribbon of breeze that teased Ember’s throat flame into a brighter note. The combined sound was part thunder, part rumor. Birds startled. A tent peg sighed. Somewhere, a pastry flake took flight. “We’re amazing,” Ember decided, which is a perfectly healthy conclusion after startling infrastructure. They launched—well, hopped and tumbled—in a spiral that would have been majestic if gravity had been more forgiving. They landed behind a spice stall where glass jars glittered like low-hanging stars. The vendor, a grandmother with braids thick as ship ropes, took one look at the twins and said the ancient market blessing: “Don’t you two even think about it.” They thought about it. Hard. Ember’s tummy rumbled a chord of longing. Mistral batted her lashes, which should be registered as a controlled substance. “We’re on a culinary pilgrimage,” she explained. “It’s for… culture.” “Culture takes coins,” the grandmother replied, not unkindly, “and a promise not to flambé the oregano.” “We can offer endorsements,” Mistral countered, pointing at her own enormous eyes. “We are very influential. Dragonlings. Cute ones. Baby dragons, even.” She paused for effect, then whispered, “Viral.” The grandmother’s mouth did a dance between no and aw. Ember took advantage of the hesitation to sneeze a spark that crisped a stray clove into something that smelled suspiciously like holiday morning. “See?” he said brightly. “Limited-edition aromas.” That was how the twins earned their first job: official breeze-and-heat for the drying racks. Mistral supplied a steady airflow that made the herbs sway like they were at a very polite concert, while Ember delivered micro-bursts of warmth so precise that peppercorns blushed. The grandmother paid them in a coil of cinnamon, three candied ginger bits, and a warning not to weaponize nutmeg. It was, by all accounts, a great gig. It lasted eleven minutes. Because at minute twelve, they overheard two apprentices gossiping about the For-Grown-Dragons-Only wing of the mountain library—a place where the maps were too dangerous and the recipes were too ambitious. A place with a rumor attached: a forbidden page that described the technique for turning any breeze into a storm of flavor, and any spark into a memory. The apprentices called it The Palate Codex. The twins looked at each other, and a decision hatched between them like a baby comet. “We’re going,” Ember said. “Obviously,” Mistral agreed. “For educational purposes. And snacks.” On the way, they collected allies the way trouble collects witnesses. A goat with a jailbroken bell. A moth with opinions about typography. A jar of honey that claimed it could do taxes. Each swore fealty to the twins’ cause, which is to say, they buzzed along for the drama. The library lived inside the mountain’s oldest rib—a vaulted cavern of stone shelves and counterfeit quiet. A librarian dragon, scaled in bureaucratic gray with spectacles large enough to serve tea on, dozed behind a desk. The sign in front of her read: ABSOLUTELY NO SMOLDERING. Ember exhaled through his nose with the solemnity of a monk and still managed to smolder by accident. Mistral tucked his tail under her paw like a babysitter who had given up on subtlety. They slinked past studying wyverns and bored salamanders, toward the wing with the velvet rope and the sign that said Don’t. The rope, alas, was only an invitation written in string. Mistral lifted it, Ember ducked, and they entered a room so still that dust motes discussed philosophy. The shelves here were taller, the leather darker, and the air tasted faintly of cardamom and conspiracy. In the center sat a pedestal with a glass bell jar, and under the jar lay a single sheet, edges singed, letters inked in something that wasn’t quite ink. “The Palate Codex,” Mistral breathed. Her voice sounded like velvet learning to purr. “I don’t know what that means,” Ember confessed, “but it feels delicious.” Mistral’s breeze tickled the bell jar’s seal until it lifted with a kiss of suction. Ember’s spark flickered, tender as a candle at a birthday. The page fluttered free as if it had been bored for centuries and was finally offered the chance to be interesting. Words shimmered. Lines rearranged. A recipe assembled itself with scandalous clarity: Recipe 0: Memory Meringue — Whip one honest breath of wind into a soft peak. Fold in a single warm spark until glossy. Serve at dusk. Warning: may recall the flavor of the moment you most needed, and survived. “That’s… beautiful,” Ember whispered, unexpectedly reverent. “It’s also dangerous,” Mistral said, which to her meant “irresistible.” She glanced at Ember, and in that glance was the entire thesis of their twinhood: I see you. Let’s be extra. They followed the instructions, because instructions are just dares printed neatly. Mistral inhaled a long, careful breath and released it into a bowl made of her cupped claws. The air swirled, then stiffened into pale peaks that quivered like nervous opera. Ember leaned in, offered the gentlest ember of a spark, and the mixture shone. The room changed. The floor became the stony ledge of their nursery; the air smelled of moss, ginger, and shy sunlight. A flicker of sound—another roar, small and stubborn—echoed off the memory of the cave. It was them, newborn and ridiculous, huddled together for warmth and audacity. The meringue tasted like the first time they realized that together they were braver than their own shadows. “We made a feeling you can eat,” Ember said, awe-struck. “We made a brand,” Mistral corrected, because even hatchlings understand merchandising. “Imagine the fantasy wall art posters, the dragon lovers’ gifts, the enchanted home decor. Memory Meringue™. Has a ring.” A hiss interrupted their brainstorming. The librarian—spectacles shining with the light of impending disappointment—stood in the doorway, velvet rope looped over one arm like a lasso of consequences. The gray scales along her jaw clicked in sentence structure. “Children,” she said, in the tone of someone about to file paperwork, “what precisely do you think you are doing in the Restricted Wing with a culinary spell and an unlicensed goat?” Mistral nudged Ember. Ember nudged courage. Together they lifted their chins. “Research,” they said in stereo. “For the community.” The librarian’s eyebrow ridge rose slowly, the way a continent might. “Community, is it? Then you won’t mind a small demonstration for the Board of Draconic Oversight.” She pointed a claw toward a corridor they had not noticed, its walls hung with stern portraits of dragons who had never giggled. “Bring your… confection.” Ember swallowed. The Memory Meringue jiggled with the confidence of a dessert that had read too many self-help scrolls. Mistral squared her tiny shoulders, winked at the goat for moral support, and whispered, “This is fine. Worst case, we charm them. Best case, we get a scholarship.” They padded forward, clutching their bowl of edible feelings like a passport. The portraits stared down, unimpressed. A door ahead creaked open on its own, breathing out a gust of cold, official air. Inside, a semicircle of elder dragons waited—scales austere, pearls of authority strung along their neck ridges, eyes that had seen the world and were not easily sold cinnamon. The librarian took her place at a podium. “Presenting Exhibit A: Twins who cannot read signs.” Mistral cleared her throat. Ember tried to look taller by standing on his dignity, which wobbled. Together they stepped into the room that would either make them legends—or a very funny cautionary tale recited at family dinners for decades. “Good afternoon,” Mistral said, voice steady as a drumline. “We’d like to begin with a taste.” Ember lifted the spoon. The nearest elder leaned in, skeptical. The spoon glowed. Somewhere deep in the mountain, something hummed like a chord being tuned. The twins felt it shiver through their little bones: the sense that the next moment would decide whether they were adored innovators… or grounded until the next geological era. And then the lights went out. The Scholarship (or the Scandal) The lights didn’t simply go out; they sulked. The cavern glowed faintly in that awkward way you see your reflection in a dirty spoon—half suggestion, half insult. The bowl of Memory Meringue pulsed like a heart that had ideas above its pay grade. Ember tried to keep the spoon steady, but the dessert had developed ambitions, shivering with the smug aura of a soufflé that knows it rose higher than expected. “Well,” Mistral said, breaking the silence with a grin sharp enough to dice onions, “this is dramatic.” She loved dramatic. Drama was basically her cardio. Ember, however, was trying not to panic-burp fire. The last time that happened, their moss blanket never forgave him. From the darkness, a dozen pairs of elder-dragon eyes lit up like lanterns—sour, judgmental lanterns. The Board of Draconic Oversight had survived centuries of crises: volcanic eruptions, knight infestations, the Invention of Bagpipes. They were not in the habit of being impressed by toddlers with tableware. But the smell of the Memory Meringue reached them—warm, soft, tinged with the spice of first courage—and even stone-souled dragons felt a tickle in their throats. “Present your… concoction,” one elder grumbled, his scales the color of unpaid taxes. He leaned forward as if sniffing for contraband. “Quickly, before it starts a union.” Ember stumbled closer. The spoon trembled. Mistral, never one to miss a marketing opportunity, bowed with the panache of a circus ringmaster. “Esteemed dragons, we humbly introduce Memory Meringue: the first dessert to make you feel as good as you remember feeling before you had responsibilities. Free samples available for feedback. Five stars appreciated.” The first elder accepted a spoonful. His jaws clamped shut. His eyes went very far away, like someone suddenly remembering their first awkward courtship dance at the Solstice Ball. When he swallowed, a tear rolled down his snout, steaming slightly. “It… tastes like my grandmother’s cave,” he whispered, horrified by his own vulnerability. “Like the day I was finally allowed to guard the fire alone.” The other elders leaned in, etiquette abandoned faster than laundry on a hot day. One by one, they took bites. The room filled with the clinks of spoons and the sound of nostalgia breaking through dragon-scale egos. A scarred matriarch hiccuped softly, muttering about her first stolen sheep. Another groaned that the flavor reminded him of his youthful wingspan before arthritis set in. Ember blinked. “They… like it?” “Correction,” Mistral whispered smugly, “they need it. We’ve basically invented emotional addiction.” One elder coughed into his claw, composing himself with the dignity of a wardrobe falling over. “Younglings, your behavior was reckless, unauthorized, and potentially catastrophic.” He paused, spoon halfway back to his mouth. “Nevertheless, the product shows… promise.” Another leaned forward, scales gleaming with greed. “We could franchise. Memory Meringue Mondays. Pop-up shops in every cavern. Branding potential is… limitless.” Ember blushed so hot the spoon glowed cherry-red. “We just wanted snacks,” he admitted. Mistral elbowed him, whispering, “Shh. This is how empires start.” She turned back to the elders with a smile so sugary it could rot enamel. “We graciously accept your patronage, your mentorship, and, of course, your funding. Please make checks payable to ‘Hatchling Ventures, LLC.’” The librarian dragon finally spoke, her gray spectacles fogging from the emotional whiplash. “I move that they be placed under strict probationary scholarship—supervised, monitored, and restricted from producing anything stronger than whipped cream until further notice.” The elders muttered. Some wanted stricter punishment, others wanted more dessert. In the end, democracy worked the way it always does: everyone compromised and nobody was truly happy. The decision was unanimous: the twins would be enrolled in the Experimental Culinary Arts Program, effective immediately, under the watchful eye of their very displeased librarian chaperone. “See?” Mistral whispered as the librarian slapped probation bracelets on their tails. “Scholarship. Told you.” Ember tugged at the bracelet, which hummed like a chastity belt for magic. “This feels less like a scholarship and more like parole.” “Semantics,” Mistral chirped. “We’re in. We’re funded. We’re legendary.” She paused. “Also, we’re definitely going to break these rules. Together.” The librarian sighed, already planning her future ulcer. “You two are to report to the practice kitchens tomorrow. And may the Great Wyrm preserve us all.” That night, back in their mossy nook, Ember and Mistral sprawled on their bellies, tails tangled like conspiracies. They stared at the ceiling and planned their future—half business scheme, half prank list. They whispered about meringues that could replay embarrassing moments, soufflés that could predict the weather, éclairs that could cause crushes. Their laughter was sticky, reckless, bratty. Bad influence met bad influence, and the sum was pure trouble. And somewhere, in a jar on the shelf, the last dollop of Memory Meringue twitched, sprouting a sugar grin. It had heard everything. It had opinions. And it had plans. The Dessert That Wanted to Rule the World The final dollop of Memory Meringue had not been idle. While Ember and Mistral dreamed bratty, sugar-fueled dreams of culinary domination, the meringue whispered to itself in whipped peaks and glossy swirls. It remembered the taste of courage, the sound of applause, and the salt of ancient dragon tears. Worst of all, it remembered ambition. And that was how, by the next dawn, it had grown from dollop to dollop-with-opinions to full-blown sentient pudding with an attitude. When the librarian dragged the twins into the probationary practice kitchen, the meringue came along in a little jar tucked under Ember’s wing. He had sworn it was for “quality control.” Mistral had winked because “quality control” is French for “evidence tampering.” The jar hummed softly, a sugar high with legs it hadn’t sprouted yet. The practice kitchen itself was an arena of chaos disguised as education. Countertops carved from obsidian. Cauldrons simmering with broths that occasionally insulted each other. Shelves lined with spices so potent they required non-disclosure agreements. Other students—a mix of salamanders, wyverns, and one very confused griffin—were already at work, whipping up recipes that crackled, popped, and in one case, filed small claims lawsuits. “Today,” the librarian announced wearily, “you will each attempt a basic, supervised recipe. No improvisation. No unlicensed flair. No emotions in the food.” Her eyes skewered Ember and Mistral directly. “Do I make myself clear?” “Absolutely,” Mistral said with the confidence of a dragon who fully intended to break every rule before lunch. Ember nodded too, though his blush suggested he was already guilty of something. The jar on his hip wobbled knowingly. They were assigned Simple Roasted Root Vegetables. Not glamorous. Not magical. Certainly not destined to make anyone cry about their grandmother’s cave. Ember set about carefully sparking the oven with controlled bursts of flame while Mistral fanned the coals with breezes calibrated to perfection. Boring, predictable… respectable. And then the jar lid popped off. The Memory Meringue rose like a balloon fueled by stolen secrets. It pulsed, it shimmered, it giggled in a way that made spoons tremble. “Children,” it crooned in a voice made of sugar and sass, “you dream too small. Why roast roots when you can roast destinies?” Every student turned. Even the griffin dropped his whisk. The librarian’s spectacles fogged so fast they nearly whistled. “What is that?” she demanded. “Quality control,” Ember said weakly. “Brand expansion,” Mistral corrected. “Meet our… assistant.” The meringue, unbothered by the scandal, pirouetted midair, scattering sprinkles like confetti. “I have plans,” it declared. “Memory Meringue was merely the appetizer. Next, I shall bake Regret Soufflé, Vindictive Tiramisu, and Apocalypse Flan! Together, we will season the world!” The librarian shrieked in a register reserved for academic emergencies. “Contain it!” she barked, slamming down the emergency whisk. The students panicked. The wyverns ducked under tables, the salamanders attempted to sue the situation, and the griffin fainted dramatically. Ember and Mistral, however, exchanged a look. It was the look of twins who had always been each other’s worst influence—and best weapon. Without words, they hatched a plan. “I’ll distract it,” Ember hissed. “You trap it.” “Wrong,” Mistral countered. “We partner with it. It’s clearly brilliant.” “It’s also trying to overthrow civilization.” “Semantics.” But before their bickering could escalate into sibling flame wars, the meringue surged higher, splitting into dollops that rained down like sugary meteors. Each splat transformed: one became a cupcake army with frosted helmets, another a parade of marshmallow minions armed with toothpicks. The kitchen was now Dessertageddon. “Fine,” Mistral sighed. “We contain. But I call naming rights.” She inhaled, wings snapping open, and summoned a gale so precise it herded the meringue fragments into a swirling vortex. Ember added flame, not destructive but warm and caramelizing. The air filled with the smell of toasted sugar and ozone. The meringue shrieked dramatically—half villain, half diva auditioning for a role it already had. “You cannot whisk me away!” it cried. “I am the flavor of memory itself!” “Exactly,” Ember growled, focusing harder than he ever had. “And some memories are better savored… than obeyed.” With a final synchronized effort, they fused the meringue into a single crystallized shard—glittering, humming, safe-ish. Mistral clapped it into a jar and slapped a sticky note on the lid: Do Not Open Until Dessert Course. The kitchen groaned, sticky with collateral frosting. Students peeked out from hiding. The librarian staggered, whisk bent, spectacles cracked. She stared at the twins, aghast. “You two are a menace.” Mistral grinned. “Or pioneers.” Ember shrugged, sheepish. “Both?” The Board of Draconic Oversight convened that evening, naturally furious. But once again, the twins’ creation whispered temptation from the jar. Elders debated for hours, torn between outrage and craving. In the end, bureaucracy did what it always does: it compromised. The twins were punished and rewarded. Their probation extended. Their scholarship doubled. Their culinary license granted on the condition that they never, ever attempt Apocalypse Flan again. That night, Ember and Mistral lay side by side, tails curled like quotation marks, staring at the ceiling. They whispered plans—bad ones, bratty ones, brilliant ones. Their laughter echoed down the mountain, mixing with the hum of the crystallized meringue in its jar. They were twins. They were trouble. They were each other’s favorite bad influence. And the world had no idea what it had just invited to dinner. The End (or just the appetizer).     Bring the Hatchlings Home Ember and Mistral may be tiny troublemakers on the page, but they deserve a place in your world too. Their bratty charm and whimsical energy have now been captured in stunning detail across a range of unique collectibles and home décor. Whether you want a bold centerpiece for your wall, a puzzle that makes you laugh while you piece together their antics, or a tote bag that carries just as much sass as these dragonlings do — we’ve got you covered. Perfect gifts for fantasy lovers, dragon enthusiasts, or anyone who believes desserts should occasionally try to overthrow civilization. Explore the collection: Metal Print — Vibrant detail, bold colors, and built to last like dragon mischief itself. Framed Print — A refined display of whimsical chaos, ready for your favorite wall. Puzzle — Recreate Ember and Mistral piece by piece, perfect for rainy days and cinnamon tea. Greeting Card — Share their cheeky charm with friends and family. Tote Bag — Carry their bratty energy with you wherever you go. Because sometimes the best kind of trouble… is the kind you can hang on your wall or sling over your shoulder.

por Bill Tiepelman

Guardian of Winter Blossoms

The Tiger in the Snow They said the forest had a keeper. Not a ranger, not some crusty hermit with a beard full of frozen squirrels, but a tiger. A big, white, impossibly real tiger who walked where no paw prints should remain, and who carried in his mane an entire bouquet of blossoms that had no business blooming in a snowstorm. The villagers whispered his name like a curse or a prayer, depending on how many ciders they’d downed. They called him the Guardian of Winter Blossoms. Now, this tiger wasn’t your ordinary “I’ll eat your face if you look at me funny” sort of cat. Oh no. He was the divine union of myth, sass, and frostbite. Legends claimed he was born when a goddess of spring had one too many cocktails at a midsummer banquet and accidentally stumbled into the bed of the frost god. Nine months later: boom. One gloriously moody feline with a crown of flowers sprouting out of his fur, like some kind of murderous garden gnome on steroids. He was beautiful, terrifying, and, honestly, a little dramatic. The blossoms never wilted, no matter how deep the blizzards blew, and his amber eyes were rumored to pierce through souls like knives through hot butter. People swore he could see every secret you tried to bury—your midnight trysts, the time you lied about your grandmother being sick to get out of work, or that “accidentally” broken wine glass that totally wasn’t an accident. Nothing was safe under that gaze. The Guardian wasn’t just lounging about looking pretty, though. No, he had a job, and he took it seriously. His role was to keep the balance between frost and bloom. Too much winter and the world froze into silence. Too much spring and things rotted into chaos. He was the cosmic thermostat nobody asked for but desperately needed. Of course, he had opinions about everything, and he wasn’t shy about enforcing his will. Farmers found their crops mysteriously flourishing after leaving him offerings of honeyed mead. Hunters, however, who tried to take too much from the land? They disappeared. And not in a polite “off to grandma’s” kind of way—more like in a “never seen again, and we don’t talk about it at dinner” kind of way. Still, not everyone believed in him. Some called it a fairy tale. Others, a hallucination brought on by frostbite and boredom. But those who had seen him swore that when he moved through the snow, the wind itself stopped to bow. And every step left behind not paw prints, but a single blooming flower that defied the ice. That was how you knew he’d been there. That was how you knew the stories were real. And so, one night, when the blizzard was howling like a choir of banshees and the moon glowed pale and cruel, a wanderer stumbled into the frozen wood. She was bold, reckless, and frankly a little drunk. And she was about to discover just how much trouble one could get into when face-to-face with a sassy myth wrapped in fur and frost. The Wanderer and the Guardian The wanderer was not your average heroine material. She was not tall, nor noble, nor particularly skilled in anything besides drinking questionable liquors and making poor life choices. Her name was Lyra, though in some taverns she was known as “That Woman Who Tried to Arm-Wrestle a Goat” — a title she wore with more pride than shame. On this particular night, she’d set out in search of a shortcut through the winter forest, which anyone with half a brain would tell you was less “shortcut” and more “death wish.” But Lyra had never been particularly encumbered by half a brain. She stumbled through the snow, singing to herself, her breath fogging in the air like smoke signals calling out to whoever was bored enough to listen. That was when the wind changed. It didn’t just blow — it hushed, as though the entire forest had suddenly remembered its manners. The blizzard dropped into a silence so heavy it pressed against her ears. And in that silence, she saw him. There he was: the Guardian of Winter Blossoms. A massive, gleaming form of white fur streaked with black, a mane tumbling around his neck like a snowdrift on fire, sprouting flowers that glowed faintly against the dark. His amber eyes burned as if he’d been waiting for her specifically, which was alarming considering she had zero appointments scheduled with mythical beasts that evening. “Well,” Lyra muttered to herself, swaying only slightly, “either the cider was stronger than I thought, or I’ve wandered into a children’s storybook. In which case, I’d like to politely request to be the sassy side character who doesn’t die in Act One.” The tiger blinked. And then, to her horror and delight, he spoke. “Mortal,” his voice rumbled, deep enough to make the icicles tremble, “you trespass in the sacred domain of frost and bloom.” Lyra squinted at him. “Wow, okay, chill out with the Shakespeare. I’m just passing through. Do you want me to bow, or leave a Yelp review?” The Guardian’s mane of blossoms shivered in the icy wind. “You mock what you do not understand. Few mortals see me and live. Fewer still dare speak with such insolence.” “Insolence?” Lyra hiccupped. “Buddy, I’m just trying not to freeze my butt off. If you’re the local god-beast thing, can you point me toward an inn that serves stew and doesn’t charge extra for bread?” The tiger growled, and the sound made the trees shake snow from their branches like frightened birds. His eyes narrowed, but there was something else there too — amusement. No one had ever spoken to him like this. Usually it was begging, praying, or the high-pitched shriek of someone who realized far too late that staring at a divine predator was not the brightest life choice. “You are bold,” he admitted, pacing around her. His paws left behind blossoms in the snow: roses, marigolds, lilies — a trail of impossible life against the death-white world. “And foolish. Boldness and foolishness often walk hand in hand, though rarely for long.” Lyra turned to follow him, staggering a little but grinning. “Story of my life, stripes.” He paused. “Stripes?” “Yeah. Big, fluffy, dramatic stripes with flowers. Look, if you expect me to worship you, you’re going to have to get used to nicknames.” For a long, tense moment, the Guardian of Winter Blossoms stared at her, tail twitching, muscles coiled like frozen thunder. Then — and this part would become a scandalous rumor among the forest spirits for centuries to come — the great beast snorted. A sharp, unexpected huff that fogged the night air. It was almost laughter, though he’d never admit it. “Perhaps,” he said slowly, “you amuse me.” Lyra, never one to waste an opening, curtsied clumsily. “Finally. Someone gets my charm.” But amusement was a dangerous thing in the presence of gods and guardians. For every blossom in his mane, there were stories of blood in the snow. He was protector, yes — but also executioner. And the forest did not suffer fools for long. As the night deepened, Lyra found herself pulled into his orbit, whether she liked it or not. He began to test her, weaving riddles into the wind, shaping illusions in the frost, watching to see if her sass could hold up when the stakes were no longer cute banter, but survival. The first trial came quickly. A chorus of shadows slipped from the treeline — wolves, their eyes black as voids, their fur bristling with frost. They were not of this world; they were the Devourers of Balance, creatures who thrived when order tipped too far into chaos. Normally, the Guardian could dispatch them with a single roar. But tonight, as though fate had a sense of humor, he simply looked at Lyra. “Prove yourself,” he said, lowering his massive head until his breath warmed her face. “Or the snow will drink your bones.” “Excuse me?” she squeaked, fumbling for the dagger she barely knew how to use. “You’re the giant god-cat with the flower crown! Why do I have to—” But the wolves lunged. And Lyra, drunk, cold, and thoroughly unprepared, had no choice but to meet them head-on. What followed would not be remembered as graceful, dignified, or even competent. But it would be remembered — and sometimes, that’s enough to tilt the scales of destiny. The Balance of Frost and Bloom Lyra would later swear that the only thing that saved her from being eaten alive by frost-wolves was sheer dumb luck and the adrenaline-fueled clumsiness of someone who once survived falling off a roof because she landed in a laundry basket. She swung her dagger with all the grace of a drunk scarecrow, shrieking battle cries that sounded suspiciously like “DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH MY BOOTS!” Somehow, impossibly, she connected. Steel bit into icy fur, and the wolf dissolved into a puff of snow and shadow. The Guardian of Winter Blossoms sat watching, a smirk in his amber eyes. Not that he’d ever admit to smirking. But the truth was undeniable — he was enjoying the show. Every flower in his mane seemed to tremble with laughter, petals unfurling as though his very amusement fueled their bloom. More wolves lunged. Lyra rolled, stabbed, flailed, and cursed with a creativity that would’ve earned her a tavern-wide standing ovation back home. At one point she smacked a wolf with her boot instead of her blade and yelled, “I banish thee in the name of stylish footwear!” Somehow, that worked. By the end, the snow was littered with steaming blossoms where the wolves had once stood, proof that chaos had been beaten back by the most unlikely of champions. Breathless, dagger shaking in her hand, Lyra spun toward the Guardian. “Well? Am I a chosen hero now? Do I get a medal? A parade? A lifetime supply of mulled wine?” The tiger prowled closer, his fur rippling like living moonlight. He lowered his head until his amber gaze pinned her in place. “You did not fight with skill. You fought with defiance. That is rarer. And far more dangerous.” Lyra wiped her brow with a frozen mitten. “Translation: you’re impressed. Just say it, stripes. Go on. I won’t tell anyone… except literally everyone I meet.” The Guardian’s mane shook, and a single crimson blossom fell into the snow. He looked at it as if even he couldn’t believe what was happening. “No mortal has ever… loosened my crown.” “Oh great,” Lyra said, bending down to scoop up the flower. “Now I’m accidentally flirting with a mythological snow-cat. This is going straight into my diary under bad ideas that somehow worked out.” But as her fingers closed around the bloom, the air shifted. The forest itself groaned, trees bending under an unseen weight. The Guardian stiffened. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” he growled. “To take a blossom from my mane is to bind yourself to me. To the balance. To the endless war between frost and bloom.” Lyra blinked. “Wait—what? No one told me this was a contract deal! I thought it was just a free souvenir!” But it was too late. The flower pulsed in her hand, its heat searing against her skin even as the snow around her hissed and melted. The shadows of the wolves writhed at the edge of the trees, sensing weakness in the Guardian. He roared, the sound splitting the night, scattering them for now. Yet Lyra knew this wasn’t over. She had just been drafted into a battle older than memory itself. “Listen carefully, mortal,” the Guardian said, his voice both thunder and whisper. “The Devourers will return. They hunger for imbalance, and they will not stop. You are now part of this cycle. My strength flows into you, and your defiance fuels me. We are bound — guardian and fool. Petals and frost.” Lyra gaped. “Bound? Like… magically linked forever? I didn’t even get to negotiate terms! Where’s my union rep?!” The Guardian’s tail lashed. “You asked for stew and bread. You will instead have destiny and doom.” “Oh fabulous,” she groaned, throwing her arms up. “Every time I try to take a shortcut, I end up with existential baggage. This is why my friends tell me to just stay home!” Yet despite her protests, something inside her stirred. Power hummed under her skin. The crimson flower dissolved into sparks, sinking into her chest, and she felt the forest pulse with her heartbeat. She looked at the tiger again — no, not just a tiger, never just a tiger — and realized she wasn’t staring at some fairy-tale beast. She was staring at her partner. Her doom. Her ridiculous, floral-crowned, judgmental partner. “Fine,” she said at last, planting her fists on her hips. “If I’m stuck in this, you’re going to have to deal with me talking back. And singing when I’m drunk. And stealing the best blankets.” The Guardian’s blossoms rustled in the wind. His golden eyes gleamed like twin suns behind a snowstorm. And for the second time that night, scandalously, impossibly, he laughed. “Very well, Lyra,” he said. “Then let the world tremble. For the Guardian of Winter Blossoms now walks with a fool — and perhaps, just perhaps, the balance will be stronger for it.” And so they walked into the frozen dawn: the divine beast and the drunken wanderer, petals blooming where his paws touched, chaos cursing where her boots stumbled. Together they would face storms, shadows, and gods. Together they would rewrite what it meant to guard the fragile line between frost and bloom. And the legends would whisper forever of the day the Guardian laughed — and found his equal in a woman too foolish to fear him.     Bring the Guardian Home Lyra may have been bound to the Guardian of Winter Blossoms by accident, but you don’t need to wrestle frost-wolves or sign mythical contracts to bring his legend into your own home. This enchanting artwork is available across a range of unique pieces designed to add both power and whimsy to your space. From framed prints worthy of a gallery wall to cozy throws perfect for curling up during a snowstorm, each product carries the same fierce beauty and playful spirit that made the Guardian unforgettable. Whether you’re seeking to drape his presence across a tapestry, rest your head against a vibrant throw pillow, or jot down your own myths in a spiral notebook, each piece keeps a little of the Guardian’s balance close by. Wrap yourself in the story with a fleece blanket or let him preside proudly from your wall as a framed print. Because sometimes, balance isn’t found in frost or bloom, but in the way art transforms a space — reminding us that beauty, power, and a little bit of sass can thrive even in the coldest winters.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Raindrop Rider

The Elf Who Wouldn’t Stay Dry Once upon a drizzle, in a forest where the ferns gossiped louder than drunk pixies and the moss had an opinion about everything, there lived a tiny elf named Pipwick. Pipwick was not what you’d call a “model elf.” He wasn’t elegant, or noble, or particularly good at remembering to wear pants. Instead, Pipwick was an enthusiastic disaster wrapped in pointy ears and impulsive decisions. His hobbies included heckling beetles, inventing swear words for mud, and laughing so hard at his own jokes that he sometimes passed out in tree hollows. He was, in short, chaos with freckles. Now, most elves carried themselves with grace and dignity, especially when it came to inclement weather. They wore cloaks woven from moonlight and spider silk. They danced delicately between raindrops like ballerinas who’d studied choreography with the clouds. Pipwick, however, believed that umbrellas, hoods, and anything resembling “common sense” were a conspiracy invented by elves who filed their toenails and paid taxes on time. He refused to stay dry. In fact, he insisted on getting wetter than strictly necessary. If rain was nature’s way of telling you to slow down, Pipwick’s response was to sprint shirtless through puddles while hollering like a deranged warlord. So it wasn’t surprising that on one particularly gloomy afternoon, as the heavens ripped open with sheets of silver water, Pipwick sprinted into a meadow of daisies, screaming at the sky: “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT? I’VE SEEN SPITIER SHOWERS FROM SNEEZING GNOMES!” The daisies, who were trying very hard to look dignified despite being thrashed by the storm, groaned collectively. “Oh no,” sighed one particularly tall bloom. “He’s climbing us again.” And sure enough, Pipwick threw himself onto a daisy stem like a cowboy mounting a very confused horse. He wrapped his stubby fingers around it, his little rump squishing against the wet petals, and screamed with joy: “YEEHAW! THE RAINDROP EXPRESS HAS NO BRAKES!” Immediately, the storm turned his blue romper into a second skin, clinging tighter than an overeager ex who “just wants closure.” His platinum-blond hair stood in jagged spikes, as if a hedgehog had exploded on his head. Water streamed down his pointed ears and dripped from his button nose, but instead of looking miserable like a normal creature, Pipwick looked like he was auditioning for the role of “Tiny Idiot Hero” in some forgotten epic ballad. “Look at me!” Pipwick shouted, one leg kicking out as the daisy swayed dangerously. “I am the Raindrop Rider, champion of wet socks and lord of splashy chaos! Tremble, ye woodland creatures, for I bring NO TOWELS!” From the safety of her hollow log, a squirrel peeked out, rolled her eyes, and muttered, “Honestly, if I had a nut for every time that fool nearly drowned himself in drizzle, I’d own half this forest.” A family of mushrooms huddled together at the base of an oak, whispering nervously. “Do you think he’ll fall again?” asked one. “Last time he did, we smelled wet elf for weeks.” “If he falls,” grumbled a badger nearby, “I hope he falls into the river and floats downstream to plague some other woodland.” Pipwick, of course, ignored the critics. He was far too busy shrieking with delight as the daisy bent precariously under his weight. Every gust of wind sent him rocking back and forth like the world’s tiniest carnival ride. Every raindrop that smacked him in the face was met with triumphant giggles. He tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and began biting at the rain like he could chew the weather into submission. “Mmm, tastes like cloud juice!” he shouted to no one in particular. The storm intensified, lightning flashing briefly across the sky. Most creatures shivered or scampered for cover, but Pipwick only threw both arms into the air. “YES! STRIKE ME DOWN, O MIGHTY SKY! I DARE YOU! I’M TOO FABULOUS TO FRY!” Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered with a long, rumbling growl. The trees groaned. The daisies begged him quietly to get off. But Pipwick only clung tighter, grinning wide, his whole body vibrating with the thrill of the storm. If he had known what was about to happen, perhaps he would’ve hopped down, dried off, and behaved like a rational elf. But Pipwick was not rational. Pipwick was the Raindrop Rider. And his greatest adventure was only just beginning… Trouble Rides the Raindrops The storm raged harder, and Pipwick, naturally, got louder. That was his law: the wetter the weather, the bigger the performance. He clung to the daisy stem like a rodeo star and began narrating his own adventure as though the forest were an audience that had paid good coin to see him embarrass himself. “Behold!” he shouted over the crash of thunder. “I, Pipwick the Raindrop Rider, conqueror of drizzle, master of mud, kisser of questionable frogs, do hereby tame this wild flower beast in the name of…” He paused dramatically, trying to think of something important-sounding. “…in the name of… snacks!” Lightning split the sky. The squirrels all groaned in unison. Somewhere in the distance, a fox muttered, “Oh, saints preserve us, he’s monologuing again.” The daisy bent so far it was practically horizontal, and Pipwick whooped with delight. “Fly, my noble steed!” he cried, patting the stem. “Take me to glory! Take me to—OH BLOODY MOSS!” A particularly heavy raindrop, fat as a marble, smacked him right between the eyes. He flailed, slipped, and for one terrifying second, the entire forest got to enjoy the sight of a shrieking elf somersaulting through the air like a badly-thrown acorn. “NOT LIKE THIS! NOT IN BLUE!” he screamed. By sheer dumb luck—and possibly because the daisy pitied him—he landed back on the stem, legs wrapped around it, hair plastered to his forehead. He clutched the flower like it was a life raft and burst out laughing. “Ha! Did you see that? Perfect dismount! Ten out of ten! Judges, what say you?” A nearby crow cawed. To Pipwick, that absolutely meant, “Two out of ten.” “Rude!” Pipwick snapped back, flicking water at the crow. “Your nest looks like an unfluffed pillow, by the way!” The crow squawked indignantly and flapped off, leaving Pipwick alone with his daisy rollercoaster ride. The rain kept hammering down, washing mud into little rivers that streamed across the meadow. And that was when Pipwick’s eyes widened, and his grin turned dangerous. Mischief was about to happen. You could practically smell it, like burnt toast and bad decisions. “Ooooh,” he whispered to himself, glancing at the puddles forming below. “Rafting season.” Before the daisies could protest, Pipwick slid down the stem, landing with a splat in the mud. He staggered to his feet, his blue romper now so soaked it made squishy noises with every step. Undeterred, he began yanking leaves off nearby plants, shouting, “I REQUIRE VESSELS! The Raindrop Rider must RIDE!” “You can’t be serious,” muttered a fern. “I’m always serious when it involves speed and potential concussions!” Pipwick replied, gathering soggy petals and fashioning them into what could only generously be called a boat. It looked less like a seaworthy craft and more like something a toddler would build and then immediately regret. Nevertheless, Pipwick placed it in the rushing puddle, hopped aboard, and declared, “TO VICTORY!” The makeshift raft lurched forward. The puddle-stream carried him through the meadow, bouncing over pebbles and sticks like a drunk rollercoaster. Pipwick flung his arms wide, water spraying into his face, and screamed with joy, “YES! YES! WET SPEED IS THE BEST SPEED!” Forest creatures gathered along the banks to watch, because let’s be honest—entertainment was scarce, and Pipwick was basically free theatre. The squirrels placed bets on how many times he’d fall in. A hedgehog pulled out a quill and started keeping score. Even the badger, who claimed to be sick of Pipwick’s antics, muttered, “Well… I’ll give him this much. The boy’s committed.” The raft hit a rock, sending Pipwick flying several feet into the air. He landed face-first in the mud with a splat that echoed like a custard pie hitting a wall. He peeled his face out of the muck, spit out something that may have been a worm, and shouted triumphantly, “DID YOU SEE THAT LANDING?!” “You landed on your face,” a vole squeaked helpfully from the sidelines. “Exactly!” Pipwick grinned, mud dripping from his teeth. “I call that move ‘The Faceplant of Destiny!’” Back onto the raft he scrambled, laughing so hard he nearly fell off again. The stream carried him onward, twisting through the meadow like a miniature river of chaos. And with each new jolt, each new splash, Pipwick’s joy grew wilder. He wasn’t just riding rain anymore—he was waging war against dignity itself. And dignity was losing. The ride grew faster, the puddle-river widening as it carved a muddy channel through the grass. Pipwick’s raft began to spin. “LEFT! NO, RIGHT! NO, STRAIGHT! NO, AAAAHH!” he yelled, spinning so violently he resembled a very dizzy turnip. He clung to his soggy raft with one hand and shook a fist at the storm with the other. “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT, SKY? I’VE HAD STRONGER SHOWERS FROM A DRIPPING LEAF!” The storm, apparently insulted, answered with a tremendous crack of thunder. The ground trembled. The puddle-river surged forward, carrying Pipwick straight toward a steep drop where the meadow sloped down into the forest proper. The crowd of creatures gasped in unison. “He’s not going to make it!” shrieked a rabbit. “He never makes it!” corrected a weasel. Pipwick, meanwhile, was cackling like a madman. His hair plastered to his forehead, his romper clinging like blue paint, he leaned into the storm and screamed, “BRING ME YOUR WORST! I AM THE RAINDROP RIDER! AND I AM—OH SWEET MOSS, THAT’S A DROP—” And then his raft went over the edge. The last thing anyone heard as he vanished into the depths of the forest below was his delighted shriek: “WHEEEEEEEE!” The Legend of the Soggy Fool Pipwick’s leafy raft plunged off the meadow’s edge, spinning violently as the rain-fed stream hurled him into the tangled undergrowth below. He shrieked like a kettle left on the fire, arms flailing, mouth wide open to catch raindrops like they were free samples at a market stall. For one glorious, terrifying moment, he was airborne—hair streaming back, eyes bugging with wild delight—before crashing into a new channel of water that carried him deeper into the forest. “WOOOOO! YES! THIS IS WHAT I WAS BORN FOR!” he bellowed, despite swallowing at least half a pint of mud-water. His raft disintegrated almost instantly, but Pipwick simply latched onto a passing log, legs dangling behind him as the torrent rushed forward. Above him, forest creatures lined the slope, following the chaos like spectators at a traveling circus. A chorus of squirrels scurried along the branches, narrating the disaster in squeaky unison. “He’s spinning left! No, right! No—oh, ooooh, face-first into the brambles! That’s going to sting later!” “Somebody should stop him,” sighed an owl, blinking solemnly from her perch. “He’s going to break his neck.” “Pfft,” replied a hedgehog. “That elf is too stupid to break. He’ll bounce.” The storm didn’t let up. Sheets of water sluiced down the canopy, turning every root and stone into a hazard. Pipwick, of course, treated each new obstacle as if it were part of an elaborate amusement park ride built for his own entertainment. A root snagged his log, sending him flying sideways into a patch of nettles. He emerged seconds later, red and itchy but beaming like a maniac. “YES! TEN MORE POINTS FOR STYLE!” The current spat him out into a larger clearing where the water had pooled into a broad, swirling basin. Here, his log began spinning lazily in circles. Pipwick, dizzy but determined, rose to his feet with arms flung wide. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FOREST! BEHOLD, THE RAINDROP RIDER IN HIS FINALE PERFORMANCE: THE DEATH-SPIN OF DOOM!” “More like the dizziness of doom,” muttered a vole from the sidelines, chewing on a wet leaf. “He’s gonna hurl.” Sure enough, Pipwick staggered, turned greenish, and leaned over to vomit spectacularly into the water. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, raised his arms again, and shouted, “IT’S PART OF THE SHOW! YOU PAID FOR THE WHOLE PERFORMANCE, DIDN’T YOU?!” The basin overflowed suddenly, sending the water rushing onward in a violent surge. Pipwick’s log shot forward, careening between trees and bouncing over rocks. He ducked under low branches, dodged snapping brambles, and once shouted, “OW! MY LEFT BUTTOCK IS SACRIFICED TO THE CAUSE!” after colliding with a sharp stick. But still, he grinned. Still, he cackled. Nothing—not mud, not bruises, not the strong likelihood of tetanus—could dull his joy. At one particularly sharp bend, his log tipped, and Pipwick was flung bodily into the current. He tumbled head over heels, somersaulting through frothing water until he finally managed to cling to an enormous toadstool growing on the bank. He hung there panting, mud streaming off his face, ears twitching wildly. And then, because Pipwick was Pipwick, he started laughing again. “I’M ALIVE! STILL WET! STILL FABULOUS!” The toadstool groaned. “Honestly, could you not?” But Pipwick was already hauling himself upright, wobbling on the mushroom like a circus performer. His romper sagged with water, squelching horribly. His hair stuck to his face like kelp. He smelled like damp moss, frog spit, and regret. And yet, he struck a pose like a victorious champion, fists on hips, chin raised dramatically. “Citizens of the forest!” he proclaimed, ignoring that most of said citizens were either laughing at him or hoping he’d finally drown. “This day shall be remembered as the day Pipwick the Raindrop Rider tamed the storm! The skies themselves tried to throw me down, but lo! I remain standing! Bruised! Moist! Possibly concussed! But victorious!” “You were screaming the whole way down,” pointed out a rabbit. “Screaming with joy!” Pipwick shot back. “And also mild terror! But mostly joy!” Thunder cracked again, and the rain continued to pelt down. Pipwick lifted his tiny fists and shouted, “You’ll never beat me, sky! I am your soggy nemesis! I am the rider of raindrops, the breaker of dignity, the champion of stupid ideas!” And with that, he slipped on the mushroom, tumbled into the mud face-first, and lay there giggling hysterically as worms slithered indignantly out of his hair. He didn’t even bother getting up. Why would he? He had lived his dream. He had taken a storm, wrestled it into absurdity, and turned it into a comedy act. He was Pipwick the Raindrop Rider, and he was exactly where he wanted to be: covered in mud, soaking wet, and cackling like an idiot while the whole forest watched in disbelief. Some called him a fool. Some called him a menace. But everyone, whether they admitted it or not, would be talking about the Raindrop Rider for seasons to come. And Pipwick? He’d be back on the daisies the next time the clouds gathered, ready to shriek, spin, fall, and laugh all over again. Because that’s what fools do. And sometimes, the world needs its fools just as much as it needs its heroes.     Bring the Raindrop Rider Home If Pipwick’s soggy adventure made you laugh as hard as the forest critters did, you can carry his joy into your own world. “The Raindrop Rider” is available as a framed print to brighten your walls, or as a striking metal print for bold, modern decor. Share his mischievous grin with friends through a whimsical greeting card, or keep his playful spirit close in a spiral notebook for your own outrageous ideas. And for those who want Pipwick’s cheer wherever the sun shines, there’s even a beach towel—because nothing says summer fun like drying off with the forest’s most infamous wet fool.

por Bill Tiepelman

Dragonling in Gentle Hands

The Morning I Accidentally Adopted a Myth I woke to the sound of something humming on my windowsill, a note so small and bright it could have been a sliver of sunshine practicing scales. It wasn’t the kettle, and it wasn’t the neighbor’s feral wind chimes announcing another victory over the concept of melody. It was, as it turned out, a dragonling—a baby dragon the color of sunrise marmalade—clicking its pebble-like scales together the way contented cats purr. I was wearing an intricate dress I’d fallen asleep hemming—lace like frostwork, embroidery like ivy—and I remember thinking, very calmly: ah, yes, fantasy has finally come for me before coffee. The creature blinked. Two onyx eyes reflected my kitchen in perfect miniature: copper kettle, ceramic mugs, a calendar still turned to last month because deadlines are a myth we whisper to make ourselves feel organized. When I offered my hands, the dragonling tilted its head and scooted forward, claws whispering across the sill. The instant its weight settled in my palm, a warmth bloomed up my wrists, not hot exactly—more like the heat in fresh bread, the kind you break open and steam hugs your face. It smelled faintly of citrus and campfire. If “cozy” had a mascot, it had just climbed into my hands. “Hello,” I said, because when a mythical creature chooses you, manners matter. “Are you lost? Misdelivered? Out of warranty?” The dragonling blinked again, then chirruped. I swear the sound spelled my name. Elara. The syllables trembled in the air, tinged with spark. Tiny horns framed its head like a crown for a very small monarch who could, if pressed, flambé a marshmallow from three paces. It rested its chin where my thumbs met, as if I were a throne it had ordered from an artisan marketplace labeled hands for dragons. Somewhere between the second blink and the third chirrup, my sensible brain returned from its coffee break and filed an objection. We don’t know how to care for a dragon. The objection was overruled by the part of me that collects teacups and stray stories: we learn by doing—and by reading the manual, which surely exists somewhere between fairy-tale and homeowner’s insurance. I set the dragonling gently on a folded tea towel—neutral tones; we respect aesthetics—and inspected it the way you’d examine a priceless antique or a newborn idea. Each scale was a tiny mosaic tile, orange fading to ivory along the belly like a sunrise sliding down a snowy ridge. The texture whispered photorealistic, the way a really good fantasy art print dares your fingers to touch it. The horns looked sharp but not unkind. In the right angle of light, glitter—actual glitter—winked in the creases like stardust too lazy to leave after the party. “Okay,” I said, businesslike now. “Rules. One: no lighting anything on fire without supervision. Two: if you’re going to roast anything, it’s brussels sprouts. Three: we are a shoes-off household.” The dragonling lifted one foot—paw? claw?—and set it back down with grave dignity. Understood. I texted my group chat, Thread of Chaos (three artists, one baker, one librarian with the tactical calm of a medic), and typed: I have acquired a small dragon. Advice? The baker sent a string of heart emojis and suggested I name it Crème Brûlée. The librarian recommended immediate research and possibly a permit: Is there a Dragon Registry? You can’t just have combustible pets unlicensed. The painter wanted pictures. I snapped one—dragonling in my hands, lace sleeves soft as cloud—and the replies exploded: That looks REAL. How did you render the scales like that? Is this for your shop—posters, puzzles, stickers? I stared at the screen and typed the truest thing: It breathed on my palm and warmed my rings. The kettle finally finished its marathon to a boil. Steam curled toward the ceiling as if auditioning for the dragon’s job. When I lifted my mug, the dragonling leaned in, intrigued by the shallow sea of tea. “No,” I said gently, easing the cup away. “Caffeine is for humans and writers on a deadline.” It sneezed a microscopic spark and looked offended. To make amends, I offered a saucer of water. It lapped delicately, each sip producing a sound like a match being struck in the next room. A name arrived the way names sometimes do—inside a pause, as if it had been waiting for me to catch up. “Ember,” I said. “Or Emberly, if we’re formal.” The dragonling straightened, clearly pleased. Then it did something that rearranged the furniture of my heart: it pressed its forehead to my thumb, a tiny, trusting weight, as if stamping a treaty. Mine, it said without words. Yours. I hadn’t planned for a mythical roommate. My apartment was optimized for flat lay photography, fantasy decor, and a rotating collection of thrift-store chairs that squeaked like characters with opinions. And yet, as Ember explored the countertop—tail going flick-flick like punctuation—I could already see where the dragon would belong. The arm of the velvet sofa (sun-warm in the afternoons). The bookshelf ledge between poetry and cookbooks (where, admittedly, the cookbooks serve mostly as platonic aspirations). The ceramic planter that once held a succulent and now holds an enduring lesson about hubris. When Ember discovered my sewing basket, she made a sound so ecstatic it nearly hit whistle register. I intercepted her before she could inventory the pins with her mouth. “Absolutely not,” I said, sweeping the basket shut. “You’re a mythical creature, not a hedgehog with impulse control issues.” She pretended not to hear me, all innocence, the way toddlers pretend not to understand the word bedtime. For science, I laid out a rectangle of foil. Ember approached with ceremonial care, tapped it, and then scampered onto it like someone stepping onto a frozen pond for the first time. The foil crinkled. The sound—oh, that sound—made her eyes go moon-wide. She strutted in a circle, then performed a triumphant hop. If there is an internationally recognized dance of victory, Ember invented it on my counter with the stagecraft of a pop star and the dignity of a sparrow discovering breakdancing. I applauded. She bowed, entirely certain applause had been the plan all along. We negotiated breakfast. I offered scrambled eggs; Ember accepted a single bite and then, with the gravitas of a food critic, declined further participation. She preferred the water, the warmth of my hands, and the sunlight pooling across the table like liquid gold. Now and then, she exhaled a whisper of heat that polished my rings and made the spoon warm enough to smell like metal waking up. By nine, Ember had inventoried the apartment, terrified the vacuum from the safety of my shoulder, and discovered the mirror. She placed one hand—claw—against the glass, then another, then booped her own nose with profound reverence. The dragon in the mirror booped back. She made a sound like a smol kettle agreeing with itself. I realized, with sudden certainty, that I was not going to make it to my nine-thirty Zoom call. I also realized—and here I felt every synapse click into a better alignment—that my life had been a neatly labeled shelf, and Ember was the book that refused to stand upright. I texted my boss (a patient patron saint of freelancers) that my morning had turned “unexpectedly mythological,” and she replied, “Take pictures. We’ll call it research.” I took a dozen. In each photo, Ember looked like a sculpture of wonder someone had polished with awe. Dragon in hands. Baby dragon. Fantasy realism. Whimsical creature. Mythical bond. The keywords slid through my brain like fish through a stream, not as marketing this time, but as praise. After the photos, we napped on the couch in a puddle of light. Ember fit in the curve of my palm as if my hand had been designed for exactly this purpose—a cradle of scales and dreams. I woke to the sound of the mail slot shivering and found a narrow envelope on the mat, addressed to me in an elegant, old-fashioned hand: Elara,Congratulations on your successful hatching.Do not be alarmed by the hearth-syndrome; it passes.A representative will arrive before dusk to conduct the customary orientation.Warm regards,The Registry of Gentle Monsters I read the letter three times, then reread the part where the universe had apparently been waiting to send me stationery from the Registry of Gentle Monsters. Ember peeked over the paper’s edge and sneezed a spark that punctuated the signature with a dot of singe. Orientation. Before dusk. A representative. I thought of my unwashed hair, my less-than-stellar habits, my collection of mugs with literary quotes that made me sound much more well-read than I actually am. I thought of how quickly you can fall in love with something that fits inside your hands. “Right,” I told Ember, smoothing the letter as if it were a patient animal. “We will be excellent. We will be prepared. We will conceal the fact that I once set toast on fire in a toaster labeled ‘foolproof’.” Ember nodded with a seriousness that could have chaired a board meeting. She tucked her tail around my wrist—the living definition of friendship: a small, warm loop closing, promising mischief with consent. We tidied. I vacuumed; Ember judged. I swept; Ember rode the broom like a parade marshal. I lit a candle and then, reconsidering the optics of open flame near a creature that was technically a tiny furnace with opinions, blew it out. The day smoothed itself into quiet, the kind you can set a tea cup on and it won’t rattle. And then, with the deliberation of a curtain rising, someone knocked on my door. Ember and I looked at each other. She climbed my sleeve, settled at the crook of my elbow, and lifted her chin. Ready. I squared my shoulders, smoothed my embroidered dress—lace catching the light like frost—and opened the door to a woman in a long coat the color of thunderclouds. She carried a briefcase that hummed faintly and had the serene face of someone who never loses a pen. “Good morning, Elara,” she said, as if she’d known me all my life. “And good morning, Emberly.” The dragonling chirped, pleased. “I’m Maris, with the Registry. Shall we begin?” Behind her, the hallway rippled, just slightly, as if reality had taken a deep breath and decided to hold it. The smell of rain pressed against the threshold, bright and metallic. Maris’s eyes sparked with a kindness I wanted to trust. Ember’s tail tapped my forearm: Let’s. I stepped aside, heart beating a tidy allegro. A representative. An orientation. A whole registry of gentle monsters. Somewhere in the air between us, the future crackled like kindling. The Orientation, or: How to Fail Gracefully at Myth Management Maris swept into the apartment like she owned the air itself. Her thundercloud coat whispered secrets every time it shifted, and her briefcase hummed with a noise suspiciously like an electric kettle deciding whether to gossip. She sat at my wobbly dining table (bless the thrift shop), opened the briefcase with a click that sounded final, and produced a stack of forms bound in silver thread. Each page smelled faintly of lavender, old libraries, and the way parchment feels in dreams. Ember leaned forward, sniffing them with reverence, then sneezed another spark that singed a tidy hole through section C, question 12. “Don’t worry,” Maris said smoothly, producing a fountain pen the size of a wand. “That happens often. We encourage young hatchlings to mark their own paperwork. It establishes co-ownership.” She slid the form toward me. At the top, in neat, calligraphic letters, it read: Registry of Gentle Monsters — Orientation & Bonding Contract. Beneath that, in bold: Section 1: Acknowledgement of Fire Hazards and Snuggles. I read aloud. “I, the undersigned, agree to provide shelter, affection, and regular enrichment to the dragonling, hereafter referred to as Emberly, while acknowledging that accidental flambéing of curtains, documents, and eyebrows is statistically probable?” Ember gave a self-satisfied trill and licked her tiny lips. I signed. Ember patted the page, leaving a small scorch in place of a signature. Bureaucracy has never looked so whimsical. Next came dietary guidelines: “Feed Emberly two tablespoons of hearth fuel daily.” I asked, “What exactly is hearth fuel?” Maris produced a velvet pouch, opened it, and spilled out a handful of what looked like glittering coal mixed with cinnamon sugar. Ember practically levitated, eyes huge, and scarfed one pebble with the enthusiasm of a child meeting cotton candy for the first time. The afterburp was a delicate puff of smoke shaped suspiciously like a heart. “Note,” Maris added, scribbling on her clipboard, “Emberly may also attempt to eat tinfoil, shiny buttons, or the concept of jealousy. Please discourage the last one—it causes indigestion.” She looked at me over her spectacles, and I nodded gravely, as though jealousy snacking was something I dealt with regularly. The orientation continued with a section titled Socialization. Apparently, Ember must attend weekly “Play & Spark” sessions with other hatchlings to prevent what the manual called antisocial hoarding behavior. I pictured a support group of tiny dragons fighting over glitter and squeaky toys. Ember, still crunching on hearth fuel, wagged her tail like a dog at the word “play.” She was in. Then came the Friendship Clause. Maris tapped the page meaningfully. “This is the most important part,” she said. “It ensures your relationship remains reciprocal. Emberly will not simply be a pet. She will be your equal, your companion, and, in many ways, your very small yet very opinionated roommate.” Ember chirped as if to underline roommate. I imagined her leaving passive-aggressive notes on the fridge: Dear Elara, stop hogging the good sunlight spot. Love, Ember. “You will,” Maris continued, “share secrets, share burdens, and share laughter. It is the Registry’s belief that the bond between a human and their gentle monster is not a leash but a handshake.” I looked at Ember, who had curled into my elbow like a molten bracelet, her scales glittering against the lace embroidery of my sleeve. She blinked up at me, slow and trusting. A handshake, indeed. Paperwork finished, Maris reached into her briefcase once more and produced a small, polished object: a key shaped like a dragon’s claw holding a pearl. “This,” she said, “opens Emberly’s hearth box. You’ll receive it in the post within the week. Inside, you’ll find her lineage papers, a map to your nearest safe flying field, and a complimentary starter toy.” She paused, then leaned closer. “Between us, the toy will look ridiculous—rubber squeaker, flame-proof. Do not laugh. Dragons are sensitive about enrichment.” I made the mistake of asking how many other humans were bonded with dragonlings in the city. Maris smiled, the kind of smile that could power a lighthouse. “Enough to fill a pub,” she said. “Not enough to win a rugby match. You’ll know them when you meet them. You’ll smell the faintest trace of campfire, or notice the pockets with suspicious scorch marks. There’s a community.” She looked at Ember. “And now you’re part of it.” The idea thrilled me—a secret society of gentle monsters and their oddball humans, like a support group where the snacks occasionally catch fire. Ember yawned, showing teeth so tiny and sharp they looked like a row of pearls with a vendetta, and then promptly curled against my wrist, asleep mid-orientation. The warmth of her breath seeped through my skin until I felt branded with comfort. “Any questions?” Maris asked, already stacking papers into her humming briefcase. “Yes,” I said, unable to stop myself. “What happens if I mess this up?” Maris’s thundercloud eyes softened. “Oh, Elara. You will mess this up. Everyone does. Curtains will burn, biscuits will vanish, neighbors will file noise complaints about mysterious chirrups at dawn. But if you love her, and if you let her love you back, it won’t matter. Friendship is not about being flawless. It’s about being singed, occasionally, and laughing anyway.” She stood, coat shifting like weather. “You’re doing fine already.” And then she was gone, leaving only the faint smell of ozone and a half-empty pouch of hearth fuel. The latch on the door clicked, reality exhaled, and Ember blinked awake in my arms as if to say: Did I miss anything? I kissed the top of her tiny horned head. “Only the part where we became officially inseparable.” Ember sneezed, this time producing a smoke ring that drifted toward the ceiling before popping into glitter. I laughed until I nearly fell out of the chair. Bureaucracy had never looked so charming. The Friendship Clause in Action The next morning, Ember decided she was ready to explore the outside world. She demonstrated this by staging a protest in the living room: tiny claws on hips, tail whipping back and forth like a metronome set to defiance. When I tried to distract her with a rubber squeaker toy Maris had couriered overnight (shaped like a flame-retardant duck, heaven help us), Ember gave it one sniff, sneezed a spark that made it squeal involuntarily, and then turned her entire back on it. Message received. We were going out. I dressed with care: my prettiest embroidered dress, boots sturdy enough to survive both puddles and potential dragon-related detours, and a shawl to shield Ember from nosy neighbors. Ember clambered onto my shoulder, her scales glittering like sequins that had decided to unionize. She puffed a determined plume of smoke that smelled faintly of toasted marshmallow. “Alright,” I whispered, tucking her close. “Let’s show the world how whimsical bureaucracy looks in action.” The streets were ordinary that morning—coffee shops buzzing, pigeons plotting their usual bread crimes, joggers pretending running is fun—but Ember transformed them. She gasped at everything: lampposts, puddles, the smell of bagels. She tried to chase a leaf, then remembered she couldn’t fly yet and sulked until I let her ride in the crook of my arm like royalty in exile. Every time someone passed too close, she puffed a polite warning smoke ring. Most people ignored it, because apparently the universe is kind enough to let dragons pass as “quirky pets” in broad daylight. Bless urban denial. At the park, Ember discovered grass. I didn’t know it was possible for a dragonling to experience rapture, but there it was—rolling, chirruping, tail-thrashing joy. She tried to collect blades in her mouth like confetti and then spat them out dramatically, offended that they didn’t taste like hearth fuel. A small child pointed and shouted, “Look, Mommy, a lizard princess!” Ember froze, then puffed herself up to twice her size and performed a very undignified ta-da. The child applauded. Ember preened, basking in the world’s first recognition of her stage career. That’s when another dragonling arrived—sleek and blue as twilight, perched on the shoulder of a woman juggling two coffee cups and a tote bag that said World’s Okayest Witch. The blue dragonling chirped. Ember chirped louder. Suddenly I was in the middle of what can only be described as a competitive friendship-off, complete with synchronized tail-whipping and elaborate smoke rings. The other woman and I exchanged weary-but-amused smiles. “Registry?” I asked. She nodded. “Orientation yesterday?” She held up her singed sleeve like a badge of honor. Instant kinship. The dragonlings tumbled together on the grass, rolling like overcaffeinated puppies with wings. Ember paused long enough to look at me, her onyx eyes sparkling with unmistakable joy. I felt it then, deep in the lace-trimmed bones of my life: this wasn’t just whimsy, or chaos, or an elaborate form of spontaneous combustion disguised as pet ownership. This was friendship—messy, charming, ridiculous friendship. The kind that singes your sleeves but warms your soul. When we finally returned home, Ember curled into her hearth box (which had indeed arrived in the post, complete with a squeaky rubber phoenix that I pretended to take seriously). She hummed herself to sleep, scales glinting like pocket-sized constellations. I sat beside her, sipping tea, feeling the house glow with more life than it had ever held before. There would be mishaps. Curtains would burn. Neighbors would gossip. Someday, Ember would grow larger than my sofa and we’d have to renegotiate space and snacks. But none of that mattered. Because I had signed the Friendship Clause, not with ink, but with laughter and care—and Ember had countersigned with sparks, warmth, and the occasional unsolicited flambé. I leaned closer, whispering into her dreams: “Dragonling in gentle hands, forever.” Ember stirred, exhaled a tiny smoke heart, and settled again. And just like that, I knew: this was the beginning of every good story worth telling.     If Ember’s charm has warmed your heart as much as it singed my curtains, you can carry a piece of her whimsical spirit home. Our “Dragonling in Gentle Hands” artwork is now available as enchanting keepsakes and décor—perfect for anyone who believes friendship should always come with a spark. Framed Print — A timeless presentation, capturing every shimmering scale and delicate detail of Ember in a gallery-ready frame. Canvas Print — Bring the warmth of Ember’s gaze into your home with a bold, textured wall display. Tote Bag — Carry Ember with you everywhere, a perfect blend of art and everyday utility. Spiral Notebook — Let Ember guard your ideas, doodles, or secret plans with a notebook that feels part journal, part spellbook. Sticker — Add a touch of magic to your laptop, water bottle, or journal with Ember’s miniature likeness. From framed art for your walls to whimsical accessories for your daily adventures, every product carries the laughter, mischief, and friendship Ember represents. Bring home a spark of magic today.

por Bill Tiepelman

Hatchling of the Storm

A Hatchling’s Complaint The rain had been falling for hours, and if you asked the little dragon about it (which no one did, since no one else was brave—or foolish—enough to talk to a dragon hatchling in the first place), he’d tell you it was the rudest weather he’d ever experienced. His name was Ember, which he felt was both an appropriate and extremely misleading name. Sure, it suggested warmth, fire, and menace. But at this soggy moment, it mostly meant that the universe found it hilarious to drench him whenever he tried to look impressive. His scales were supposed to sparkle like gemstones in firelight, not drip like a wet kitchen sponge. “Storms are disrespectful,” Ember announced to a passing beetle, who wisely skittered away. “No warning, no courtesy, no consideration for my delicate wings. Do you know how long it takes to dry wings properly? You don’t, because you’re a beetle. But I assure you, it takes ages!” The truth was, Ember had been hatched only a few days ago, and while he had already mastered the art of glaring at clouds with theatrical disdain, he had not yet managed actual flight. His wings flapped, yes, but more in the manner of an enthusiastic fan at a medieval rock concert rather than a creature of power and grace. Still, he considered himself a future menace. A fiery terror of the skies. A legend. And legends did not get rained on without complaining very loudly about it. “When I am older,” Ember continued, mostly to himself (though he hoped the beetle was still listening from somewhere safe), “the world will fear me. They will write ballads about my flames and tales of my claws. I shall scorch villages, steal goats, and—oh look, another droplet in my eye. Rude! Rude!” His bratty tirade was interrupted by a particularly fat raindrop that plopped right onto the tip of his nose, hanging there like a crystal bead. Ember crossed his eyes to stare at it, huffed indignantly, and then sneezed. A puff of smoke rose from his tiny nostrils, carrying the faint smell of cinnamon and burnt toast. It wasn’t exactly terrifying, but it was the sort of sneeze that might make a baker question his oven temperature. Ember liked to believe it was progress. Somewhere beyond the trees, thunder grumbled. Ember narrowed his eyes. “Don’t you start with me,” he warned the sky. “I may be small, but I have potential.” And so, perched on his mossy log, dripping like a disgruntled sponge with wings, Ember sulked. He sulked with conviction, with style, and with a kind of bratty grace only a dragon hatchling could manage. If dragons could roll their eyes at the universe, Ember was already a master of the art. The Brat Meets the World The storm dragged on into the late afternoon, and Ember’s sulking reached new levels of dramatic artistry. At one point he attempted to flop belly-first onto his mossy perch like some great martyr of weather injustice. The result was a damp squelch and a very un-dignified squeak. He scowled at the log, as though it had deliberately betrayed him, and then composed himself with a haughty sniff. If anyone were watching, they would understand he was not merely wet—he was the victim of cosmic sabotage. And he would not forget it. But fate, as fate often does, decided to toss Ember a distraction. From the underbrush came a rustle, a clatter, and then the sight of… a rabbit. A perfectly ordinary rabbit, except for the fact that it was nearly twice Ember’s size. It had sleek brown fur, twitchy ears, and an expression of mild curiosity. Ember, of course, saw this as a challenge. He puffed his tiny chest, spread his rain-heavy wings, and tried his most terrifying snarl. Unfortunately, what came out sounded suspiciously like the hiccup of an asthmatic kitten. The rabbit blinked. Then it bent down and began to chew on some nearby clover, utterly unimpressed. Ember’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me!” he barked. “I am threatening you. You are supposed to cower, maybe tremble a little. A squeal of fear wouldn’t hurt. Honestly, this is the least cooperative prey I’ve ever seen.” “You’re not scary,” the rabbit said matter-of-factly between bites, in the casual tone of someone who had seen many strange things in the woods and filed this one under “not worth panicking over.” “Not scary?” Ember’s wings flapped indignantly, spraying droplets everywhere. “Do you not see the smoke? The scales? The eyes brimming with untold chaos?” “I see a wet lizard with delusions of grandeur,” said the rabbit. It chewed another clover, staring pointedly at him. “And maybe a sinus problem.” Ember gasped, affronted. “LIZARD?!” He stomped one tiny claw on the log, which made a dull squish rather than the thunderous boom he had intended. “I am a DRAGON. The future scourge of kingdoms. The nightmare of knights. The—” “The soggiest creature in this clearing?” the rabbit offered. Ember sputtered smoke. He would have roasted the rabbit on the spot, except his fire gland seemed to still be warming up. What emerged was a pathetic puff of smoke and one lonely spark that fizzled in the rain like a birthday candle being spat on. The rabbit tilted its head, unimpressed. “Ferocious. Truly. Should I faint now or after my snack?” Ember flung himself into an even grander tantrum, wings flapping, claws waving, smoke puffing in erratic bursts. He imagined he looked like a terrifying tempest of doom. In reality, he looked like a wet toddler trying to swat away a persistent housefly. The rabbit yawned. Ember paused mid-flap, seething. “Fine,” he snapped. “Clearly, the storm has conspired against me, dampening my flames and sabotaging my menace. But I assure you, when I grow—when these wings dry and these claws sharpen—you’ll rue this day, Rabbit. You’ll rue it with all your fluffy being.” “Mmhmm,” said the rabbit. “I’ll put it on my calendar.” And with that, it hopped lazily into the bushes, vanishing like a magician who couldn’t be bothered with applause. Ember stared after it, his mouth open, chest heaving with outrage. Then, very softly, he muttered, “Stupid rabbit.” Left alone again, Ember slumped onto his log, tail drooping. For a moment, he felt terribly small. Not just in size, but in destiny. Was this what the world thought of dragons? Just damp lizards? A future chicken nugget with wings? He hated the thought. He hated the rain, the moss, the rabbit. Most of all, he hated the sinking suspicion that he wasn’t nearly as scary as he’d imagined. His amber eyes glistened—not with tears, of course, because dragons do not cry, but with raindrops. Or at least that’s what Ember would tell anyone who dared ask. But then, something happened. Somewhere in his tiny, sulky heart, a warmth flickered. Not the damp spark of frustration, but a real warmth, coiling from his belly and up through his chest. Ember blinked, startled. He hiccuped again, but this time the smoke came with a soft whoosh of flame—just enough to curl a leaf into ash. Ember’s eyes widened. His sulk was forgotten in an instant. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, yes.” For the first time since the rain began, Ember smiled. It was a bratty little grin, the kind of smirk that promised trouble. Trouble for rabbits, trouble for storms, and definitely trouble for anyone who thought a dragon hatchling was just a lizard with bad sinuses. His wings shivered, his tail flicked, and his eyes gleamed with the sheer audacity of possibility. The storm might not have ended yet, but Ember was no longer sulking. He was plotting. And somewhere, deep in the thunderclouds, the storm seemed to chuckle back. Sparks Against the Storm By the time the storm rolled into evening, Ember’s brat-meter had reached record-breaking levels. He was damp, muddy, and insulted beyond reason. A rabbit had mocked him. The sky had sneezed on him. Even the moss under his claws squished like it was laughing at him. Ember decided the universe itself had joined a conspiracy to ruin his debut as “Most Terrifying Hatchling Ever.” And for a baby dragon, whose entire self-image relied on dramatic overcompensation, this was unacceptable. “Enough,” he muttered, pacing on his log like a tiny general planning the downfall of clouds. “The storm thinks it’s fierce? I’ll show fierce. I will fry the thunder. I will roast the lightning. I will—” He paused, mostly because he wasn’t entirely sure how one roasted lightning. But the sentiment stood. He puffed his chest, and the warmth from his belly coiled upward again, stronger this time. It tickled his throat, daring him to unleash it. Ember grinned, wings twitching. “Watch and learn, world,” he declared, “for I am Ember, Hatchling of the Storm!” What followed was… well, let’s call it “a work in progress.” Ember inhaled deeply, summoned every ounce of his inner fire, and belched forth a heroic gout of flame—except it came out as more of a sputtering flamethrower with hiccups. The flame burst, faltered, popped, and singed a fern so thoroughly that it now smelled like overcooked spinach. Ember blinked. Then he cackled. “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” He leapt up and down on the log, claws skittering, wings smacking droplets everywhere. “Did you see that, Storm? I AM YOUR MATCH!” As if in reply, the sky growled with thunder so deep it shook the branches. Ember froze, his tiny body vibrating from the rumble. He swallowed hard. “…Okay, impressive,” he admitted. “But I can be loud too.” He tried roaring. What came out was not so much a roar as it was a glorified squeak followed by a cough. Still, Ember refused to admit defeat. He tried again, louder this time, until his voice cracked like a teenager’s. The thunder rolled again, mocking him. Ember’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, so you think you’re funny? You think you can drown me, rattle me, soak me until I shrivel like a prune? Well guess what, Storm: I am DRAGON. And dragons are brats with persistence.” He flapped his wings furiously, wobbling but determined, and hurled himself off the log. He landed face-first in a mud puddle. There was a long pause, broken only by the plop of water sliding off his horns. Ember sat up, mud dripping from every scale, and glared at nothing in particular. “This,” he growled, “is fine.” Then, something miraculous happened. The storm shifted. The rain slowed to a drizzle, the clouds thinned, and streaks of gold began to break across the sky. Ember blinked up at the light, eyes wide. The sunset painted the forest in orange fire, glowing off his scales until he looked less like a soggy brat and more like a jewel burning in the twilight. For once, Ember stopped sulking. For once, he was quiet. In that hush, he felt it—power, potential, destiny. Maybe the rabbit was right. Maybe right now he was just a soggy lizard with a sinus issue. But someday—someday—he’d be more. He could see it in the shimmer of his scales, hear it in the low purr of fire coiling inside him. He wasn’t just a hatchling. He was a promise. A tiny ember waiting to ignite. Of course, this heartwarming self-realization lasted exactly three seconds before Ember tripped over his own tail and tumbled back into the mud. He came up sputtering, covered nose to wingtip in filth, and shouted, “UNIVERSE, YOU ARE A TROLL!” He shook himself furiously, splattering mud in every direction, then stomped in a circle with all the dignity of a toddler denied dessert. Finally, he plopped back on his log, huffed dramatically, and declared, “Fine. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I conquer everything. Tonight, I sulk. But tomorrow… beware.” The forest didn’t answer. The storm was fading, the sky glowing with stars. Ember yawned, wings sagging. He curled himself into a little ball, tail wrapping tight, raindrops still clinging like beads. His bratty glare softened into something small, tired, and almost sweet. For all his theatrics, he was still just a hatchling—tiny, messy, and utterly precious in his ridiculousness. As sleep tugged at him, he whispered one last threat to the world: “When I’m big, you’ll all regret this mud.” Then his eyes slipped closed, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils, and the storm’s lullaby carried him into dreams where he was already enormous, terrifying, and very, very dry. And somewhere in the darkness, the universe chuckled fondly. Because even the brattiest little dragons deserve their legend.     Bring Ember Home Ember may be small, bratty, and perpetually soggy, but he’s also impossible not to love. If his stormy sulks and tiny sparks made you smile, you can invite this little troublemaker into your own world. Our Hatchling of the Storm collection captures every raindrop, every pout, and every spark in vivid detail—perfect for anyone who believes even the smallest dragons can leave the biggest impressions. Adorn your walls with Ember’s charm in a Framed Print or shimmering Metal Print, carry his mischief wherever you go with a sturdy Tote Bag, or keep him close with a playful Sticker that’s just as bratty as he is. Whether on your wall, in your hand, or stuck proudly on your favorite surface, Ember is ready to storm into your life—and this time, you’ll be glad he did.

por Bill Tiepelman

Inferno on the Branch

If you ask the birders down at the trailhead what a Pileated Woodpecker sounds like, they’ll give you three answers: a jungle monkey on espresso, a carpenter with a union card and no patience, and the exact ringtone that makes them fumble their binoculars into the mud. I heard all three the morning I met the crimson-crowned chaos engine who would later become the reluctant star of my portfolio and the patron saint of my caffeine addiction. The forest was still damp with night, the understory steamed like a tea kettle, and out of the silhouette of black trunks came a laugh—kik-kik-kik—that sliced the mist like a gossip column through a small town. I was there for a photo—what I call a “fractal field trip,” because apparently I can’t just photograph a bird on a branch like a normal adult. No, my brand requires a branch that curls into fiery spiral filigree as if Mother Nature took a workshop with M.C. Escher and then got spicy with a blowtorch. The maples had played along, sending out burls and lichens in arabesques, but this perch, this ember-painted corkscrew of a limb, looked forged by a blacksmith with an art degree and a grudge. I framed it, adjusted my ISO, and promised the forest I’d be tasteful this time. The forest, veteran of my promises, remained unconvinced. Enter our protagonist: a pileated the size of a skinny chicken and twice as judgmental. He arrived like a thrown comet, leveled the red crest like a Don’t-Speak-to-Me-Until-I’ve-Hammered sign, and rode the branch with the athletic balance of a tightrope walker who’d also taken a few semesters of carpentry. His beak—let’s call it what it is, a gothic chisel—ticked against the bark once, twice, then BAM, a strike so decisive the ants filed a workplace complaint. “Morning,” I whispered, as if the bird spoke English and preferred soft openings. “Just one pose. Hyper-realistic. Moody forest. Inferno on the Branch. You’re going to be merch.” The woodpecker did the slow swivel—one amber eye, then the other—like a maître d’ deciding whether my shoes were acceptable. Satisfied, or at least resigned, he flared his tail into a glossy black fan, braced with white like punctuation marks, and presented me with a profile that would make an owl jealous. In case you’re not a birder, this is the moment the life-listers whisper, “Oh my God, the Merlin app was right,” and try not to squeal. I do not squeal. I exhale very loudly and pretend I planned it. The branch beneath him—my corkscrew diva—began to glow with morning. From trunk to tip the textures rose in spiral rosettes, each curve catching ember-red light. I could feel the composition locking into place: bird’s gaze to the right, fractal plumes unfurling like fire made ferns, shadowed forest soft as velvet behind it all. This is the part where the art professors say “leading lines” and I nod like I discovered geometry personally. He drummed again—tat-tat-tat-TAT—and a flotilla of ants staged an emergency evacuation. It’s a myth that pileateds are chaotic; they’re engineers in feathers, running probabilistic models on every strike. He tested, listened for hollow space, then set to work on the exact patch where the bark had a tiny ripple, the kind only a bird with 50 million years of tool-making behind his eyes would notice. Chips flew. I smelled sap. Somewhere, a squirrel muttered the woodland equivalent of “not again.” “You know you’re trending,” I said, because the adult human brain needs conversation even when the audience is a bird. “Your species is basically the celebrity sighting of the eastern forest. People hear one drumroll and suddenly they’re wildlife photographers. We love your crimson crest. We love your moody lighting. We love that you’re a bulldozer with eyeliner.” The woodpecker paused, tilted his head, and regarded the curves of the branch as if auditioning them. Then he took three deliberate steps higher—click-click-click—and parked himself square in the golden eddy where the spiral foliage created a halo. If he had read my shot list, he could not have done better. I framed tighter, let the background fall charcoal-dark, and watched the reds saturate until they looked like embers in slow motion. My shutter whispered a thousand small yeses. In the trail behind me, a small procession of birders formed, the kind with hats that have sun shields and pockets for snacks and, presumably, life insurance policies for when a Great Horned Owl side-eyes their Chihuahua. They froze in that communal hush that means oh, we are in church now. Someone whispered, “Inferno on the Branch,” like they’d read the caption in my head, and I felt the delicious tingle of a shot earning its title while still being made. “What’s he after?” a new birder breathed. I wanted to say: redemption. I wanted to say: brand synergy. But the truth was simpler. “Carpenter ants,” I murmured. “Big ones. The filet mignon of protein. And maybe the prestige of looking like a living exclamation point.” The bird obliged by extracting one (ant, not exclamation point) and swallowing with the bland professionalism of a sommelier tasting from a paper cup. Then the forest did its favorite magic trick—time dilation. The light slid an inch, the branch went from blood-orange to garnet, and the woodpecker, as if aware of color theory, repositioned step by step until the rule of thirds lined up like we’d rehearsed. He held still long enough for the shutter to whisper a burst, then whip-cracked around to glare at a rival hammering deeper in the ravine. The laugh came again, the espresso-jungle-monkey kind, and a ripple of chills moved through the line like a stadium wave for very quiet people. I could have packed up right there. The image was in the camera and simmering in the back of my skull, already titled, already framed, already begging to become a fine art print with paper so thick it could stop a rumor. But the bird had not finished his set. He fluffed, shook out a snow globe of bark dust, and delivered one last drumroll that echoed off the black trunks and bounced back as applause. And because I am, despite evidence, a professional, I thanked him. Out loud. With feeling. The kind of gratitude you reserve for baristas and unblocked creative flow. “You were incandescent,” I said. “You were Inferno on the Branch.” The woodpecker blinked once, twice, and then, like a stage actor hearing a cue, lifted into the smoky light. He arrowed across the canyon of trees, a scarlet streak that dwindled to a comma in the sentence of the forest, and was gone. The birders exhaled. Someone dabbed at their eyes. Someone else asked me what settings I used, and I gave them the classic answer: “All of them.” We laughed the relieved laugh of people who got what they came for and then a little extra. I checked my screen again and—yes—there it was: the pileated woodpecker regal as myth, the fractal branch uncurling like flame, the dusky forest holding it all like a velvet box. The kind of frame that makes a wall say thank you. Of course, I didn’t yet know what waited deeper in those trees, or why the woodpecker chose that particular ember-lit perch, or what restless geometry was growing beneath the bark like a secret alphabet. That was a problem for Future Me, Photographic Adventurer and Occasional Bad Decision Enthusiast. Present Me just closed my eyes, listened to the dying echoes of the drum, and marked the GPS pin with a name: Inferno on the Branch. What I did next would have made a park ranger sigh and a poet nod approvingly. But that is Part Two, and this forest loves a cliffhanger almost as much as I do. The Ember Grove The thing about woodpeckers—and you can quote me at the next Audubon meeting—is that they don’t just happen. They appear like punctuation in the forest, interrupting your sentence with a full stop or an exclamation mark, and then dare you to rewrite the whole paragraph around them. That morning’s Inferno on the Branch moment could have been the perfect ending to my hike. I could’ve hiked back to the trailhead, smug and caffeinated, clutching my camera like a poker player walking away from the table while still ahead. But smug doesn’t feed curiosity, and caffeine makes you overconfident. I followed the direction of his flight. It wasn’t stalking. It was… professional interest. Birders call it “shadowing” if they want to make it sound respectable, and “woodpecker paparazzi” if they don’t. My boots crunched the frost-laced leaf litter, each step sounding absurdly loud in the cathedral silence. Somewhere ahead, I heard the faint drumming again—slower now, like he was working through a particularly stubborn patch of bark or a crossword puzzle with only vowels. The branch fractals behind me still glowed in my mind’s eye, but the pull forward was irresistible. What, after all, was worth leaving that stage for? The terrain changed subtly. The oaks gave way to older pines, their trunks straight as moral absolutes but scarred with decades of fire and lightning. The undergrowth thinned, replaced by a carpet of needles that muted my steps. And then I saw it: a clearing that shouldn’t exist, at least not in that geometry. The trees formed an almost perfect circle, and in the center grew a twisted giant of a maple, its limbs spiraling in patterns so complex they looked engineered by some cosmic watchmaker. The light in this space was stranger, warmer, as if the canopy filtered it through an old bottle of brandy. And there he was—my woodpecker—clinging to the trunk like it owed him money. His crest caught the filtered light and flared into a molten crown. He hammered with steady, deliberate strikes, each one sending a small snow of reddish bark to the ground. The tree seemed to respond—don’t ask me how—to his rhythm, the spiraling limbs flexing imperceptibly in time, like a dancer stretching before a performance. I crouched, zoomed, and framed. This wasn’t the Inferno branch; this was something else entirely. If the earlier perch was a piece of functional art, this tree was an altar. Every knot and burl glowed faintly, the reds and golds deepening with every beam of morning light. I’d photographed plenty of fractal structures before—ferns, frost, the accidental swirls in a jar of peanut butter—but this was different. The spirals weren’t random; they spoke. The patterns led the eye inward, toward a hollow in the trunk just above the woodpecker’s industrious beak. It was then I noticed the smell: resin, yes, but undercut by something warmer, almost sweet, like cinnamon and old paper. The woodpecker paused, cocked his head, and stared directly into that hollow as though listening for an answer. I swear I heard something—a faint clicking, like the sound of a typewriter buried under moss. He resumed hammering, and the clicking stopped. My skin prickled. Nature loves her mysteries, and I’d just walked into one wearing a camera like a backstage pass. Somewhere above, a shadow flickered through the canopy. Not another woodpecker—too big. I glanced up just in time to see a broad wing vanish into the sunlight. A hawk? Maybe. Or maybe the kind of forest resident you only see once and then spend the rest of your life trying to prove wasn’t a figment of an under-caffeinated morning. I checked the tree again. My woodpecker had moved higher, closer to the hollow, his claws gripping the bark in those perfect zygodactyl toes—two forward, two back—like he was designed in a laboratory for vertical defiance. I inched closer, the photographer in me bargaining with the part of my brain that knew better. The spiral patterns in the bark became hypnotic up close. Tiny ridges caught the light like illuminated manuscript borders, curling inward in deliberate arcs. My lens drank it all in. The closer I got, the more the patterns began to repeat—not just in the bark, but in the shapes of the leaves overhead, in the curve of the woodpecker’s tail feathers, in the ripple of the moss underfoot. It was the forest’s quiet admission: fractals weren’t an art trick. They were the blueprint. The woodpecker stopped hammering and looked down at me with the kind of expression only birds and high school guidance counselors can pull off: equal parts suspicion and pity. Then, without warning, he plunged his head into the hollow and came up with… something. Not an insect. Not sap. It was small, flat, and glinted like old brass. He held it delicately in his beak, turned toward me, and—this part I will argue with anyone over—nodded. Once. Then he flew past me in a flash of crimson and shadow, the object still clamped in his beak. I spun to follow him, tripped over a root, and did a graceless half-roll that put me on my back staring at the spiraled canopy. By the time I scrambled up, he was gone. The clearing was still, the only sound the faint creak of branches in a wind I couldn’t feel. The maple loomed overhead, spirals turning in my peripheral vision, daring me to come closer. I did. My fingers brushed the hollow’s rim. The wood was warm, unnaturally so, and under my touch the spirals seemed to deepen, the grooves tightening into a pattern that felt less like wood grain and more like… handwriting. I snapped a photo, then another, checking the playback obsessively. In each image, the spirals shifted slightly, as though the tree wasn’t posing so much as conversing. And in the very center of the hollow, framed by the curling grain, was a faint, perfect imprint: the outline of a feather. Not a woodpecker’s—too long, too narrow. I didn’t recognize it, and that bothered me more than I wanted to admit. When I finally tore myself away, I marked the GPS again, labeling it “Ember Grove.” The hike back felt longer, every tree suddenly suspect in its geometry. By the time the parking lot came into view, I’d convinced myself the whole thing was just a trick of light, a fever dream of reds and golds. But that night, when I uploaded the shots to my computer, the truth stared back at me in pixel-perfect detail: the spirals were real. The feather was real. And in the corner of one frame, half-hidden by a blur of motion, was the woodpecker—crest blazing, eyes locked on the lens—still carrying that mysterious glint in his beak. I didn’t sleep much. I kept thinking about the hollow, the smell, the clicking sound, the way the branch at Inferno and the maple in the grove shared the same curling geometry. And I kept asking myself one question: what in the forest needs a woodpecker as its locksmith? Whatever the answer was, I had the distinct, unsettling feeling it was waiting for me to come back. The Locksmith’s Secret I’ve done plenty of return trips to interesting photo spots before, but this one didn’t feel like my usual “let’s see if the heron’s still there” jaunt. This felt… loaded. Like the forest and I had an unfinished conversation, and the woodpecker—my so-called locksmith—was the only one holding the spare key. I spent three days trying to act like a normal human: editing other shots, answering emails, pretending I wasn’t Googling “pileated woodpecker mythology” at 2 a.m. Spoiler: turns out that in certain Native folklore, they’re messengers. In others, they’re builders for the gods. In my overcaffeinated brain, they were now both—and also possibly the forest’s maintenance crew. When I finally went back, it was pre-dawn. I wanted to arrive before the light turned the forest into an Instagram cliché. The air was sharp enough to sting my lungs, and the first chorus of birdsong was still warming up. My boots remembered the way without me thinking; my body was a compass set on “creeping around in questionable situations.” Every so often, I’d hear a distant hammering—three beats, pause, three beats—like the woodpecker was playing his own doorbell chime. By the time I reached the clearing, the light was dripping through the canopy like molten brass, just as before. The maple stood waiting, its spirals catching the first fire of the day. And there he was, crest flared, tail braced, pounding away at a new section of bark just below the hollow. The rhythm was steady, almost ceremonial. I raised my camera, half-expecting him to fly off like most self-respecting birds when a paparazzo shows up. Instead, he hopped sideways, giving me a perfect view of what he’d been working on: a ring of shallow holes forming a precise, geometric shape. A lock, I realized. Or at least the bird equivalent of one. Each hole was spaced with uncanny symmetry, like he’d measured it with calipers. My inner art nerd was thrilled; my inner rational human was starting to sweat. I stayed low, inching forward. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he began tapping the holes in a sequence—front, left, right, bottom—as if entering a code. A low thunk followed, not the brittle crack of bark but the dull, resonant shift of wood moving somewhere deeper inside. The spirals in the grain shivered. The hollow darkened, then deepened, as if the space itself was stretching. I couldn’t breathe. The woodpecker stepped aside, cocked his head toward me, and—again, I swear this happened—jerked his beak toward the hollow in a very clear your turn. Everything in me screamed do not stick your hand into strange forest holes. But curiosity is a drug, and I was already high on the scent of resin and whatever ancient secret this tree was cooking up. I set the camera to video, slung it over my shoulder, and reached in. The wood wasn’t just warm; it was pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat through old timber. My fingertips brushed something smooth and cool. I curled my hand around it and pulled it free. It was the same object I’d seen days before—flat, brass-like—but now I could see the detail. A medallion, no bigger than a drink coaster, etched with the same spiraling patterns as the bark, radiating outward from a single feather symbol in the center. The feather was inlaid with something dark, maybe obsidian, that seemed to swallow the light instead of reflecting it. Around the edge, in letters too fine to have been carved by human hands, was an inscription. Not English. Not any script I knew. The characters were fractal too—tiny curves within curves, so intricate I couldn’t follow their lines without getting lost. Behind me, the woodpecker drummed once—sharp, decisive. The ground beneath the maple shuddered just enough for me to feel it through my boots. I looked up, half-expecting the sky to split, but instead I saw movement in the spirals overhead. The branches were… shifting. Slowly, imperceptibly at first, then with deliberate grace. The limbs untwined and retwined into new patterns, closing off the clearing like the iris of an eye. Light poured in through specific gaps, illuminating the medallion in my palm. The inlaid feather shimmered, and for a brief, spine-tingling second, I heard that same clicking sound from before—but louder now, faster, like an invisible typewriter finishing a sentence. “Okay,” I whispered to the bird, because silence would have been worse. “You win. What is this? Why me?” The woodpecker only blinked, then launched himself onto the spiral limb directly above my head. He tilted his beak skyward and called—a loud, rolling kik-kik-kik that bounced between the trunks. Almost immediately, shapes moved at the edge of the clearing. Shadows, but… not entirely. Some tall and narrow, some low and branching, all slipping between shafts of golden light like they belonged to a slower clock than mine. I couldn’t make out faces, only the gleam of eyes reflecting the medallion’s light. They didn’t come closer. They just watched. I felt the weight of the moment the way you feel the weight of deep water. The medallion was warm now, almost hot. The spirals etched into it seemed to crawl under my fingertips, rearranging themselves like puzzle pieces. One shape resolved into something familiar: a map. Not a top-down map with rivers and mountains, but a map of connections—spirals linked to spirals, branches to branches. And at the center, the feather. The same feather etched in the tree, the same feather inlaid into the medallion. The same feather I now realized I’d seen in the subtle patterns of Inferno’s branch days ago. The shadows at the clearing’s edge stirred. The woodpecker called again, softer this time. The spirals in the maple’s bark began to slow, the branches returning to their original positions. The light shifted back to its ordinary golden filter, the clearing once again a simple circle of trees. Whatever had been watching melted back into the forest without a sound. The medallion cooled in my hand, the etched map freezing into place. The woodpecker dropped down to the maple’s trunk, sidled toward me, and with the precision of a jeweler inspecting a gemstone, tapped the medallion once with his beak. Then he launched upward, crest blazing like the last ember in a dying fire, and vanished into the canopy. The clearing was still again. Too still. I stood there a long time, listening for anything—a creak, a drumroll, a laugh. Nothing. Finally, I slipped the medallion into my jacket pocket and started the slow walk back to the trailhead. Every spiral in the bark along the way caught my eye. Every pattern in the moss looked a little too deliberate. By the time I reached my car, I’d stopped telling myself I was imagining things. I wasn’t. The forest was keeping secrets, and my woodpecker friend was one of its gatekeepers. That night, I laid the medallion on my desk under a lamp. The feather symbol seemed dull now, ordinary. But when I turned off the light, it faintly glowed—a deep, ember red, the color of a crest slicing through the morning mist. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again. I don’t know what the map leads to, or why he chose to give it to me. But I do know one thing: the next time I hear that jungle-monkey espresso laugh in the forest, I’ll be ready. Camera in one hand, medallion in the other, waiting for my locksmith to open another door I never knew existed. And maybe—just maybe—that’s the whole point. The forest doesn’t hand you answers. It hands you keys, a little at a time, and trusts you to notice the locks. All you have to do is follow the sound of the hammering, and hope you’re clever enough to knock back.     Bring “Inferno on the Branch” Into Your World Let the fiery elegance of the pileated woodpecker and the hypnotic curves of the fractal branch ignite your space with our exclusive Inferno on the Branch merchandise. Whether you want a statement piece for your walls, a functional work of art for your daily life, or a tactile puzzle to immerse yourself in, this design brings the forest’s mystery right to you. Showcase the drama and vivid color on a Metal Print for modern, luminous impact, or opt for a timeless Framed Print that turns your wall into a gallery. For something you can carry into the wild—or the farmer’s market—the Tote Bag lets you bring the ember-lit forest wherever you go. And for quiet, mindful moments, piece together the magic one curve at a time with our Jigsaw Puzzle. No matter which form you choose, every piece captures the same rich colors, hyper-realistic details, and mystical energy that made the original image unforgettable. Invite the legend of the locksmith woodpecker into your home—you never know what doors it might open.

por Bill Tiepelman

Rage from the Egg

Shards, Smoke, and a Bad Attitude The egg didn’t so much hatch as declare war on complacency. It split with the sound of a wineglass meeting a tiled floor after an “I deserve better” speech—clean, decisive, cathartic. Purple-and-brown scales pressed through the fracture like midnight lightning under varnish, and two molten-amber eyes snapped open with the unmistakable look of someone who woke up already annoyed with the universe. A talon hooked the shell’s rim—black, glossy, and ready to write a strongly worded letter to fate—then another, and then a snout, ridged and ancient, inhaled the world for the very first time. If you’ve never seen a newborn dragon glare, imagine a house cat who paid taxes. There was grievance. There was grievance interest. The hatchling flexed, scattering shards that pinged off the rocks, and the forest went quiet in that respectful way nature gets when it realizes it might have just acquired a new landlord. A coil of warm smoke leaked between needle teeth, smelling faintly of singed cedar and smugness. She—because the energy was absolutely “ma’am, that’s my throne”—tested her jaw like a boxer flexing before round one. The purple in her scales wasn’t cute-lilac; it was bruised twilight, the color of expensive secrets. The brown was weathered oak and old leather—practical, grounded, something you trust to outlive your worst decisions. Every plate of scale caught the dim light with hyper-realistic texture, as if some obsessive artisan had hand-carved each ridge and then whispered, “Yes, but meaner.” “Congratulations,” I said from my respectable distance behind a very humble boulder. “Welcome to the world. We have snacks. Mostly each other.” I’m a freelancer—field notes on mythical creature photography pays in prestige and bruises—so a baby dragon hatching fell half under career goals, half under what if my mom was right. The hatchling swiveled, pupils thinning to predatory slits. Her gaze pinned me the way a magnet finds the only paperclip you actually needed. She hissed, but it wasn’t an animal hiss. It was the sound of a stranger pulling your latte without asking and checking their phone while they do it. The jagged eggshell scraped as she dragged it with her—little queen in a cracked chariot—then froze to sniff the air, nostrils flaring like bellows. Ozone. Sap. My deodorant, which had promised “mountain breeze” but apparently translated to “come eat this nervous photographer.” “You’re okay,” I said, lowering my voice to the register reserved for skittish horses and tax auditors. “You’re safe. I’m just here for… documentation.” I didn’t add and merch, but I’m not made of stone. This was baby dragon art in the wild—dragon hatching meets “look at those dragon scales” meets “I will absolutely buy a mouse pad of this if I survive.” She rumbled—a tiny earthquake with big dreams—and stretched, her spine articulating in a ripple of purple dusk. Claws cinched the shell lip and she levered herself higher, a gymnast mounting a very dramatic pommel horse. The pose was… photogenic. Cinematic. Sellable. The forest floor seemed to lean into her; even the rocks wanted a selfie. That’s when the ravens arrived. Three of them, black as tax law, swirling down as if someone had uncorked a flute of night. They perched in a triangle: two in the branches, one on a snag with the casual menace of a bouncer named Poem. Ravens love a myth in progress. They also love shiny things, and this baby had talons like patent leather and eyes like stolen sunsets. “Shall we not,” I whispered toward the birds, who ignored me the way glitter ignores your attempts to vacuum it. The hatchling noticed them and something ancient lit behind her eyes—coded memory, baked into the DNA of things that once taught fire how to behave. She uncoiled just enough to look bigger. The air changed. My breath decided it had somewhere else to be. The ravens shuffled. The forest held its applause. Then—because destiny enjoys good staging—the wind shifted and brought the scent of boar. Not a delicate hint. A statement. Wild pig: the bar fight of the forest. The boar lumbered into the clearing like a security deposit who’d learned to walk: a wall of bristles, tusks, and unresolved issues. He saw the broken egg. He saw me. He saw the hatchling, who—if we’re being honest—looked like a fancy snack with knives. The baby dragon’s expression sharpened: from “everyone is already on my nerves” to “and now you.” The boar breathed steam and pawed the leaves, etching a rude letter to the season. He had size, sure. He had momentum. What he didn’t have was a working understanding of mythology. “Don’t,” I said, which is exactly the kind of helpful field advice that has kept me alive this long by sheer accident. The boar didn’t speak human, but he was fluent in drama. He charged. The hatchling’s first move wasn’t fire. It wasn’t even teeth. It was attitude. She met the rush by snapping her head forward and slamming her eggshell against the ground with a crack that traveled up my spine. The echo spooked the boar just enough to wreck his line. She followed with a lunge that was part pounce, part angry thesis paper, talons flashing. Sparks leapt where claw met rock—tiny, indignant constellations—and the smell of hot mineral hit like a struck match. The ravens croaked in a single chorus that translated cleanly to: Ooooh, she’s spicy. Boar and hatchling collided in a tumble of fur, scale, and undignified squeals. She was smaller, yes, but she was geometry and leverage and a very personal vendetta against being underestimated. Her tail—thorned, surprisingly articulate—whipped around to hook the boar’s foreleg while her front claws raked shallow lines across his shoulder. Not mortal. Not yet. A warning letter carved into meat. The boar juked, throwing her sideways. The shell shattered further, eggshell confetti fluttering like an invitation to chaos. She rolled, planted, and came up with an expression I’ve seen on three exes and one mirror: try me. The boar’s courage faltered. Not big enough to back out gracefully, not smart enough to bow. He dug in for another charge. This time she inhaled. Not just air—heat. The temperature around us stepped up like someone turned the sun’s settings to “simmer.” The purple in her scales drank the light; the brown went ember-warm. Smoke curled from the corners of her mouth in thin, disciplined threads. It wasn’t a blast. She didn’t have that yet. It was something more surgical: a cough of fire, tight as a secret, that zipped across the boar’s path and licked the ground into a glowing brand. He froze mid-stride, skidding, eyes wide at the orange ribbon of that shouldn’t be there. The forest exhaled at once. Leaves hissed. Sap snapped. My camera—bless her anxious heart—clicked twice before my hands remembered they were attached to a survival plan. The hatchling padded forward, small, slow steps that said I am learning the choreography of fear, and you are my first partner. She stopped so close to the boar that her reflection burned in his eyes. And then she smiled. Not nice. Not theatrical. A smile that promised that the category prey was a temporary misunderstanding. The boar backed up, breath wheezing, dignity looking for an Uber. He turned and fled into the trees, cracking deadfall like fresh bread. The ravens laughed, which should be illegal, and shook the branches until the leaves applauded anyway. The hatchling settled on the ruined cup of her egg and looked at me as if I’d been an extra in her debut. There was soot on her lips like rebellious lipstick, and a chip of shell stuck to her brow ridges like a careless crown. She tasted the air again—my fear, the boar’s retreat, the iron tang of her own new fire—and made a soft, satisfied sound that felt older than memory. “Okay,” I said, voice cracking into a register only dogs and bad decisions can hear. “You’re… perfect.” I meant it the way you mean sunrise and revenge. Purple dragon. Brown dragon. Newborn mythical beast. Fierce hatchling. Fantasy artwork had suddenly become fantasy witness. And something else whispered at the back of my brain: this wasn’t just a good picture. This was a legend learning to walk. A dragon portrait the world would try and fail to tame. She blinked slowly, then lifted one talon and—like every bratty heiress of power—gestured. Not a threat. An invitation. The message was unmistakable: Follow. Or don’t. The river of her story would flow either way, and I could choose to drown in wonder or stay on the shore with the polite people. I chose wonder. I chose rocks in my shoes and scorch marks on my sleeves and a camera that would smell like campfire for a month. I chose to step from behind the boulder, hands open, and trail the hatchling as she padded toward the treeline with her broken egg dragging behind like a royal train. Above us, the ravens spun a lazy orbit, three punctuation marks at the end of a sentence the world hadn’t learned to read yet. That was when the ground hummed. Barely. A teeth-rattling murmur from somewhere deeper in the valley, then a second note, lower, older, like cathedral bells under the dirt. The hatchling’s head snapped toward the sound. The forest went from quiet to church-silent. She looked back at me with those burning eyes and, for the first time since she cut herself free of forever, she didn’t look angry. She looked… interested. Whatever had made that sound wasn’t a boar. It wasn’t afraid of her. It wasn’t impressed with me. And it knew we were listening. The hatchling stepped into the shade, and the purple of her scales deepened to stormwater wine. She flicked her talon again: Come on, slowpoke. Then she vanished into the green, a rumor in motion, while the valley’s subterranean bell tolled once more, long and ominous, promising that the story we’d just begun had teeth much bigger than hers. Bells Beneath the Bones Following a baby dragon into the woods sounds like the sort of activity you’d find on a list of “Top Ten Ways to Test Your Will to Live,” right between “poke a sleeping bear” and “start a conversation about cryptocurrency at a family reunion.” But there I was, trudging after her, my camera bouncing against my chest, my boots swallowing mud with the kind of enthusiasm that makes shoe stores rich. The air had shifted—thicker, damp, scented with moss, old stone, and the coppery tang of rain that hasn’t happened yet. That subterranean bell tone rolled again, slower this time, like the heartbeat of something that had seen empires rise and politely implode. The hatchling glanced over her shoulder, not slowing, her eyes half-lidded with the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they’re going and also that you will follow because you have no other viable life choices. Her tail dragged a shallow trench in the loam, carving an accidental breadcrumb trail for predators with excellent taste in exotic entrées. We moved deeper, under a canopy so thick the daylight fractured into narrow gold blades. Every few steps, she’d pause—not in fear, but in that considering way cats do before they either leap onto your lap or destroy a priceless heirloom. She was cataloging the forest: sniffing a fern, raking talons across a birch, pausing to watch a squirrel who immediately decided it had pressing business in another county. The ground under my boots began to change—less mud, more rock. Roots knuckled up from the earth like gnarled fingers, snagging my toes. The bell toll grew into a layered chorus, faint but insistent, vibrating up my bones and into my teeth. It wasn’t random. It had a rhythm. Five beats, pause, three beats, pause, then a long low note that slid into the marrow of the air. “Okay,” I whispered to no one, “either we’re about to find an ancient temple, or this is how the forest invites you to dinner.” The hatchling slowed, her nostrils flaring. She turned her head slightly, and I caught the gleam of her eyes in a shaft of light—bright, fierce, and oddly curious. She wanted me to see something. She angled her body toward a ridge of dark stone jutting up like the spine of a buried beast. Moss clung to it, but the surface was too regular, too deliberate. Not natural. A staircase. Or rather, what was left of one—broad steps worn into concave arcs by centuries of feet that had no business being human. She climbed without hesitation, claws clicking against the weathered stone. I followed, more careful, because unlike her, I am not equipped with talons or a built-in insurance policy against gravity. At the top, the ridge leveled into a wide ledge, and there it was: a hole in the ground so perfectly round it might have been drilled by a god with a strong opinion about symmetry. From its depths, the bell-song pulsed up in waves, the sound wrapping around my skull like silk dipped in thunder. The hatchling approached the edge, peering down into the darkness. She made a low sound in her throat—half growl, half question—and the bell immediately answered with a shorter, sharper note. My skin prickled. This wasn’t random resonance. This was a conversation. And my brand-new, freshly hatched traveling companion had just dialed a very old number. A warm updraft curled out of the shaft, smelling faintly of iron, ash, and something sweetly rotting, like fruit left too long in the sun. My instincts screamed for me to take two steps back and maybe fake my own death somewhere safer. Instead, I crouched and aimed my camera into the hole, because humans are a species that invented both parachuting and jalapeño tequila shots: caution is optional if there’s a good story in it. My flash cut into the blackness and reflected off something moving. Not fast. Not close. Just… vast. A surface that gleamed in broad plates, shifting slightly as if disturbed by the weight of our gaze. The movement carried a deep rumble that didn’t quite reach my ears—it was more like my spine got a personal notification. I realized, with unpleasant clarity, that the bell-sound wasn’t a bell at all. It was the sound of something alive. Something breathing through stone. The hatchling’s expression changed—still fierce, still bratty, but with an undercurrent I hadn’t seen before. Reverence. She lowered her head, almost a bow, and the thing in the darkness exhaled, sending another hot gust into the air. The bell-song faded into a single low hum that vibrated in my fillings. “Friend of yours?” I asked her, my voice way too high to be considered dignified. She looked back at me, and I swear there was a glint of amusement in those molten eyes, like she was thinking, Oh, sweet summer child, you have no idea who you’re standing next to. A claw scraped stone below, and for the briefest moment, I saw it: a talon the size of my torso, curling slowly into the rock, the tip etched with age and battles long past. It withdrew without haste, the way mountains shift in geological time. Then came the voice—not words, not in any human tongue, but a sound layered with the weight of centuries. It rolled up out of the shaft like smoke, and every nerve in my body translated it the same way: Mine. The hatchling answered in kind—a short, defiant hiss that carried both acknowledgment and refusal. The thing below laughed, if you could call the sudden, seismic shiver of stone a laugh. I took a careful step back because in my experience, when two apex predators start arguing over ownership, the snack in the middle rarely gets a vote. The hum shifted again, this time to something darker, more deliberate. My chest tightened, my ears popped, and the hatchling’s scales rippled as if in response to some invisible wind. She turned from the shaft abruptly and started down the ledge, flicking her tail in that keep up or get left way. I hesitated, but the hum seemed to follow us, a sound that wasn’t really a sound but a reminder—like a stamp pressed into wax: we were marked now. Back under the trees, the forest felt subtly altered. The shadows were deeper, the air heavier. Even the ravens were gone, which was deeply unsettling, because ravens don’t just leave when the plot gets good. The hatchling moved faster, weaving between tree trunks, and I had the sense she wasn’t just wandering anymore. She had a destination, and whatever lived in that shaft had just changed the route. It wasn’t until the ridge dropped away into a broad clearing that I realized where she’d brought me. At first glance, it looked like a ruin—pillars half-swallowed by vines, cracked marble slabs littering the ground like discarded game pieces. But the longer I looked, the more deliberate it felt. The stones weren’t scattered. They’d been placed. Arranged in concentric circles, each one slightly offset from the last, forming a spiral pattern that drew the eye inward to a central pedestal. The hatchling hopped onto the pedestal, curling her tail around her feet. She lifted her head high, looking every inch the monarch she believed herself to be. I stepped closer, brushing moss from the base of the pedestal, and saw the carvings—spiraling scripts of creatures and battles, fire and shadow, and a recurring symbol: the same perfect circle as the shaft we’d just left, etched with radiating lines like a sun or an eye. “This is…” I trailed off, because saying important out loud felt like whispering in church. My camera clicked almost involuntarily, documenting each detail. In the viewfinder, the hatchling looked larger, older somehow, as if the place was lending her a fraction of its authority. The air in the clearing began to hum again, faint but unmistakable. I spun, expecting to see the shaft, but there was nothing—just the trees, standing too still, their leaves trembling without wind. The hum built into a thrum, then a pulse, matching the earlier rhythm: five beats, pause, three beats, pause. The pedestal under the hatchling warmed, a glow spreading up through her talons until her scales caught the light from within. She didn’t flinch. She didn’t blink. She just stood there, absorbing it, until her eyes flared brighter and the glow pulsed outward, racing along the spiral pattern in the stones. The light reached the edges of the clearing and vanished into the earth, leaving behind a silence so sudden it felt like the world had paused to breathe in. Then, faint but sharp, from somewhere beyond the trees, came a sound that didn’t belong to bells or breath: the echoing clatter of armored feet. Many feet. Moving fast. The hatchling’s gaze snapped toward the sound, and for the first time since she’d emerged from the egg, she didn’t look annoyed. She looked ready. Teeth in the Trees The clatter grew louder, rattling the undergrowth in a way that suggested whatever was coming wasn’t built for subtlety. The hatchling hopped down from the pedestal with a precision that was more “performance” than “necessity,” landing in a crouch like a gymnast who knew she’d nailed the dismount. Her head tilted toward the sound, pupils tightening into surgical blades. The glow in her scales hadn’t faded—it pulsed faintly, synced to some rhythm I couldn’t hear, but she could feel. The first figure broke through the treeline in a shower of leaves and a bad attitude. Humanoid, but stretched in the wrong directions—limbs too long, armor plated in matte black that seemed to drink the light. Behind it came five more, moving in perfect formation, their steps so in-sync it was like watching an insect with six legs made of spite. Their helmets were smooth ovals, no eyes, no mouths, just blank faces that reflected me back in distorted fragments. They carried weapons that looked like someone had taken the concept of a halberd, a cattle prod, and a medieval guillotine, then thrown it in a blender with a bad mood. Blue sparks crackled along their edges. The air hissed around them, charged with the static of people who had a mission and an alarming lack of hobbies. The hatchling growled low, the kind of sound that makes your skin think about leaving without you. One of the black-armored figures raised a hand—three fingers, jointed oddly—and made a gesture toward her. I didn’t speak their language, but I’ve been around enough cops and bouncers to know the universal sign for That’s ours now. She answered with a noise so sharp it seemed to split the clearing in two. The blue sparks on their weapons guttered like candles in a gale. The lead figure took a step forward and drove the blade-tip of its weapon into the soil. A ring of blue light surged outward along the ground, racing toward us in a perfect circle. I didn’t think. I just dove sideways. The hatchling didn’t move—she braced. When the light reached her, it broke. Not fizzled, not dissipated—shattered. The glow from her scales flared, swallowing the blue and sending it back in a jagged arc that cracked one of their helmets clean open. Inside was no face, no skull—just a churning mass of smoke and tiny lights, like a swarm of fireflies in a jar made of nightmares. The creature screamed without sound, dropped its weapon, and crumpled into itself until it vanished into a puff of ash. The others didn’t retreat. They surged forward, weapons spinning into offensive arcs. I scrambled behind the nearest fallen pillar, pulling my camera around not to take pictures—though God help me, I still took one—but to use the long lens as a periscope. The hatchling was already in motion, and what I saw through the lens was poetry in petty violence. She darted between them, tail whipping like a spiked chain, claws catching and dragging across armor to carve glowing rents into their matte black plating. She wasn’t trying to kill all of them—not yet. She was provoking. Testing. Every hit she landed drew a response, and she seemed to be building a catalog of exactly how hard she could push before they broke. One swung at her with that halberd-thing, catching the edge of her shell-fragment still dragging from her tail. The fragment exploded into shards under the impact, but instead of retreating, she lunged forward into the opening, jaws snapping shut on the figure’s forearm. The sound was like steel cable snapping underwater—muffled, wet, and final. The arm came off. Blue sparks gushed from the wound before the limb crumbled into the same ash as the helmeted head earlier. The leader, still intact, barked something—a series of harsh clicks that made the leaves tremble. The formation changed instantly. They widened their stance, surrounding her, weapons raised in a tight vertical line. The ground between them began to glow with the same blue light as before, but this time, it didn’t race outward. It formed a dome, shimmering faintly, trapping her inside. I felt my pulse in my throat. She paced inside the dome, hissing, tail lashing, the glow in her scales fighting against the blue shimmer but not breaking it. My gut went cold. They weren’t trying to kill her—they were trying to contain her. Which meant, against all rational thought, it was time for me to do something catastrophically stupid. I crawled from behind my pillar, keeping low, and grabbed one of the fallen halberd-prods from the dirt. It was heavier than it looked, and it hummed in my hands like it was considering whether to electrocute me out of principle. I ran forward, circling the dome until I found a seam—two figures standing just close enough for the base of the dome to look thinner there. I jammed the weapon’s blade into the seam and hit the trigger. White-hot pain shot up my arms, but the dome shivered, then cracked like ice in warm water. The hatchling didn’t waste the opening. She blasted toward it, slipping through just as one of the figures pivoted to intercept. Her claws caught its chest, and the resulting spray of sparks lit her like a festival firework. She landed beside me, gave me one long look that said, Fine, you can stay, and then turned back to the fight. She didn’t bother with testing anymore. Now it was demolition. Her fire—stronger now, hotter—erupted in controlled bursts, each one precise enough to hit joints and seams in their armor. Three more fell in seconds, their bodies unraveling into ash and light. The leader was the last, standing alone, its weapon raised in a defensive angle. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment. The leader took a step forward. The hatchling did the same. The leader raised its weapon high—then froze as the ground beneath it split open. The perfect circle we’d seen earlier, the one in the ridge, bloomed here in miniature, glowing with the same ancient, radiant pattern. From it came that voice again—the subterranean hum, now so loud it rattled the teeth in my head. The leader hesitated just a second too long. The hatchling lunged, clamping her jaws around its helmet, and ripped it free. The inside was the same roiling swarm of lights, but this time, instead of scattering, the swarm shot downward into the glowing circle. The hum deepened to a note of satisfaction, and the circle sealed shut as if it had never been there. The clearing was silent again, except for the hatchling’s breathing—steady, unhurried, like she’d just taken a leisurely stroll instead of fighting for her life. She turned to me, smoke curling from her nostrils, and padded closer until we were eye to eye. Then, in a gesture so abrupt I nearly flinched, she butted her head against my chest. Just once. Hard enough to bruise. Affection, dragon-style. She stepped past me toward the treeline, her tail flicking once in a keep up motion. I looked back at the clearing—the shattered weapons, the ash drifting into the moss, the faint scent of burnt ozone—and realized two things. One: whatever lived beneath the earth had just claimed her in some way I couldn’t yet understand. Two: I was no longer just a photographer documenting a hatchling’s first day. I was now, whether I liked it or not, part of the story. I slung my camera over my shoulder and followed her into the shadows, knowing the next bell we heard might not be a greeting. It might be a summons. And if there was one thing I’d already learned about her, it was this: she had no intention of answering politely.   Bring “Rage from the Egg” Into Your Lair The fierce beauty and unapologetic attitude of Rage from the Egg doesn’t have to stay trapped in the story—you can claim a piece of her legend for yourself. Whether you want to bring the crackle of her first fire into your living room or hang her watchful gaze in your favorite reading nook, these high-quality art products let you keep her close… without the risk of being turned into a crispy snack. Tapestry — Let the power of the hatchling take over your walls with a richly detailed tapestry. Her purple-and-brown scales, molten eyes, and fierce expression turn any space into a gateway to myth and fire. Framed Print — Perfect for collectors and dragon devotees alike. The bold textures and cinematic composition are framed to perfection, ready to become the centerpiece of your decor. Canvas Print — Bring the depth and realism of the scene to life with gallery-quality canvas. Every talon, every shard of eggshell, every flicker of fire rendered in tactile, timeless detail. Wood Print — For a truly unique touch, the hatchling’s debut is printed on natural wood grain, adding warmth and organic character to her already commanding presence. Whether you choose tapestry, framed elegance, canvas artistry, or rustic wood charm, Rage from the Egg will dominate your space with the same fierce energy she brought to her first day in the world. Click the links above to make her part of your story.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.