Cuentos capturados

por Bill Tiepelman

The Iron Jester of the North

Ale, Axe, and Absolutely No Quiet They said you could hear him coming before you saw him — a deep, booming laugh that rolled through Frostvik’s frozen streets like thunder over empty kegs. When he finally appeared, shoulders broad as barrels and beard brighter than a smithy’s fire, the market crowd parted like bad soup. His armor clanked, his axe gleamed, and his grin promised entertainment of the regrettable sort. “Ale!” he bellowed. “And meat. Any animal that died confused will do!” The butcher blinked. The baker hid behind a loaf. Even the town crier decided to take a personal day. But the Red Walrus Inn, a place that had seen everything from brawls to spontaneous weddings, threw its doors wide. The Jester stomped inside, trailing snow, smoke, and unrepentant enthusiasm. He ordered by volume, not vessel — three barrels of ale, a platter of something formerly mooing, and a wheel of cheese big enough to qualify for property tax. “A feast,” he declared, “fit for a king who’s on the run and bad with money!” The tavern roared its approval. Soon he was retelling tales so outrageous they bent probability into polite applause. “There I was,” he said, slamming his mug down, “face-to-face with a frost troll. Ugly beast, smelled like a fishmonger’s regrets. I tell him, ‘You’ve got beautiful eyes — pity there’s two of them!’ The troll cries, trips on his own club, and I take the win! Moral of the story: compliment your enemies. Confuses them right off their murder.” The crowd howled. Someone tried to play a lute ballad; the Jester encouraged him by clapping off-beat with both hands and one boot until the tempo surrendered. When the bard switched to a drinking song, the dwarf joined in — loudly, badly, and with harmonies no sober ear could recognize. Three mercenaries swaggered through the door then — tall, polished, and dripping arrogance. Their armor shone like a peacock’s ego. The biggest one sneered. “You’re the ‘Iron Jester’? I was expecting a clown.” The dwarf drained his mug. “And I was expecting brains,” he replied. “We’re both disappointed.” The tavern fell silent, the kind of silence that checks the exits. The Jester stood, rolling his shoulders until the plates of his armor clinked like gossip. “Right then, lads. Shall we discuss this like gentlemen or hit each other with furniture?” The choice was apparently the latter. Swords hissed free; chairs fled the scene. He swung his axe in a lazy circle — decorative at first — taking a sliver off a chandelier, a curl off someone’s mustache, and the bottom edge of the “No Fighting” sign. The mercenaries hesitated. “Don’t worry,” he grinned, “I’m a professional. Mostly.” Then chaos happened. Not the kind you plan, the kind that erupts. The Jester’s laughter shook the rafters as he dodged, ducked, and occasionally forgot which hand held the ale. By the time the dust settled, the floor had a new skylight and the mercenaries were reconsidering their career options. “Drinks on me!” he shouted, tossing a coin pouch at the barkeep. It hit the counter, burst open, and showered the room in silver. Someone cheered. Someone fainted. Someone proposed marriage to the cheese wheel. The Jester lifted his mug. “To life, laughter, and forgiving debts after this round!” Outside, the northern wind howled like a jealous rival. Inside, laughter drowned it out. And as the night stumbled toward dawn, the Iron Jester of the North leaned back, eyes half-closed, grin still wide. Tomorrow there’d be trouble — but tonight there was ale, applause, and the comforting certainty that no one in Frostvik would ever forget his name. The Morning After Alegeddon The sun crept into Frostvik as if it feared being noticed. Light filtered through a half-broken shutter in the Red Walrus Inn, slicing across overturned chairs, a puddle of something that used to be stew, and a cheese wheel wearing a sword like a crown. Somewhere beneath that battlefield of glass and regret lay a snoring mound of iron and beard. Grimnir “the Iron Jester” Rundaxe woke because his tongue had turned to sandpaper and someone, somewhere, was playing a drum solo inside his skull. He pried one eye open. A pigeon was perched on his boot, judging him. “You win, bird,” he croaked. “Now fetch me water. Or beer. Whichever arrives first.” He sat up, armor creaking, and surveyed the aftermath. The bard was asleep in a bucket. Two of the mercenaries were using each other as pillows. The third had joined the cheese wheel in what looked like a legally binding marriage. Grimnir grinned, then winced. “By the ancestors,” he muttered, “I taste like disappointment and goat.” The barkeep, a broad-shouldered woman named Sella, appeared from behind the bar with a broom and an expression honed by decades of nonsense. “You’re paying for all this, Jester.” “Course I am,” he said. “Paid last night, didn’t I?” She lifted an empty coin pouch from the counter. “You paid in buttons, dear.” “Then they were valuable buttons!” He checked his pockets, found a single silver coin, a feather, and half a sausage. “All right,” he sighed, “perhaps slightly less valuable than I hoped.” Sella rolled her eyes and poured a tankard of water. “Drink before you die of idiocy.” He drank. The water hit like a hammer of mercy. The room steadied. Sort of. “Right,” he said. “No more drinking contests. Until lunch.” From outside came the muffled sound of a crowd. Voices, excited and angry. Grimnir frowned. “What’s that racket? The tax collectors again?” Sella leaned on her broom. “No. The mayor’s posting a notice. Big bounty. Something about a caravan gone missing on the northern pass. Folks are saying it’s cursed.” Grimnir’s grin returned, slow and wolfish. “Cursed, you say? Sounds profitable.” “Sounds fatal,” Sella corrected. “Ah, but in between those two words lies opportunity.” He stood, stretched, and his back cracked like splitting firewood. “Tell the mayor the Iron Jester is sober enough to negotiate.” “You’re not,” she said flatly. “That’s the secret to charm.” He grabbed his axe from the wreckage, adjusted his dented helm, and swaggered toward the door. The mercenaries groaned awake behind him, one mumbling something about compensation and dental insurance. Outside, Frostvik looked worse than usual—gray sky, snow turning to slush, and villagers nursing hangovers of civic scale. The notice board stood in the square, plastered with parchment. The newest sheet fluttered like gossip in the cold wind. Reward: Five hundred silver crowns for information or recovery of the lost caravan of Jarl Vennar. Last seen entering the North Pass. Beware bandits, beasts, and rumors of spirits. “Five hundred crowns,” Grimnir read aloud. “That’s a lot of ale. Or buttons.” Beside him, a short, wiry woman in a patched cloak was also reading the notice. Her hair was white as frost, her eyes sharp as awls. “You don’t look like the type for subtle work,” she said without looking up. “Subtle?” he chuckled. “I once negotiated peace between two warring clans using only a chicken and my winning personality.” “And how did that go?” “Badly for the chicken. Gloriously for me.” She turned to face him then, studying the iron-clad dwarf with a faint smirk. “Name’s Lyra. Tracker. You?” “Grimnir Rundaxe, Iron Jester of the North, drinker of ales, breaker of chairs, and professional bad decision enthusiast.” Lyra snorted. “Well, Iron Jester, the mayor’s looking for volunteers. You seem too loud to miss. Try not to get us all cursed.” “No promises,” he said, and together they pushed through the crowd toward the mayor’s steps. Inside the council hall, Mayor Torvik was mid-argument with a nervous clerk. He spotted Grimnir and groaned audibly. “Not you again. Last time you ‘helped,’ you burned half my grain stores.” “Correction,” Grimnir said cheerfully. “A troll burned them. I merely encouraged efficiency.” Lyra folded her arms. “He says he can handle curses. I can find tracks no one else can. That bounty’s ours if you’ve any sense left.” The mayor pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. But if you come back haunted, I’m not paying for exorcisms.” Grimnir saluted with his tankard. “Understood. We charge extra for hauntings anyway.” By noon, the dwarf and the tracker were trudging north, the wind biting, the promise of silver ahead and trouble not far behind. Grimnir’s laughter echoed through the trees, loud enough to scare off any creature with self-preservation instincts and attract every problem with none. Lyra glanced at him. “You really think there’s treasure at the end of this?” He grinned. “Treasure, monsters, curses—doesn’t matter. The world’s dull until you poke it with something sharp.” The snow deepened. Somewhere far off, a wolf howled. Grimnir hefted his axe and smiled wider. The Iron Jester’s next act had begun. Laughter After the Echo The wind in the North Pass carried the kind of cold that makes teeth consider retirement. Snow skittered across stone like spilled salt. The trail of the missing caravan twisted between black pines and old cairns, and every cairn wore a crown of ice as if winter had tried to knight the dead. Grimnir trudged ahead, beard frosted, axe shouldered. Lyra paced beside him, quiet as breath, reading the snow like a book she’d memorized. “Wheels here,” she said, tapping a rut with her boot. “Then sudden swerve. Horses panicked.” “Bandits?” Grimnir asked. “Maybe. But the horses didn’t bolt from men.” She pointed to ragged, circling prints. “They bolted from silence.” He frowned. “Silence?” “A dead kind. You’ll hear it.” They followed the scar of tracks into a cleft where the mountain shouldered the sky. The pass narrowed until the world felt like a throat, and then—Lyra was right. Sound thinned. The clank of Grimnir’s armor dipped, as if swallowed. Even his laugh, when he tried it (purely for science), returned to him damp and small. The wagon remains lay in the throat’s deepest shadow: a shattered axle, a torn awning, crates gnawed by frost. No bodies—just clothes emptied of people, the fabric stiff as if the wearers had stepped out and forgotten to come back. Lyra crouched, gloved fingers hovering over the prints. “Dragged,” she murmured. “But no furrows. Something lifted them.” “Spirits, then,” Grimnir said. He cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and planted his boots. “Good. I’ve been meaning to offend something incorporeal.” They built a careful ring: lanterns hung from bent spears, salt scattered in a harsh white circle, iron nails laid like runes. Lyra pricked her thumb and touched the salt. “Old way,” she said. “My grandmother swore by it.” “Your grandmother swore by everything that worked,” Grimnir said softly. He tested the grip of his axe. “Tell me the plan, tracker.” “We don’t fight air,” Lyra replied. “We make it take shape.” She teased a braided length of wire and bone from her pack and clipped it to the lantern’s ring. “This will sing when they come. Spirits hate music made by the living. It reminds them of appetite.” “So I just… laugh louder than death?” “For you?” Lyra’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” Night didn’t fall so much as it slid like black glass over the pass. The lantern wicks fluttered, guttered, re-lit. The wire and bone charm quivered without wind. Then it began to sing: a thin, metallic keening that made the hairs on Grimnir’s arms stand to attention and request a transfer. Shapes gathered at the edge of the light—heat ripples in winter, mistakes in the eye. Faces tried to exist and failed. The keening rose. Snow spun upward as if gravity had reconsidered. Lyra’s hands were steady. “Speak, Jester,” she said. “Give them something to hate.” Grimnir inhaled the cold until it hurt. His chest swelled under iron plates. He planted his stance and let the laugh rise—low at first, then rolling, then big as a hall full of fools. It boomed into the unnatural quiet and managed to exist anyway. The shadows flinched. “That’s right,” he roared, “I brought jokes to a funeral! And I’m not leaving until someone heckles me!” The air tore. From the rip stepped a woman in a traveler’s cloak stitched from moonlight and dust. Her eyes were wells cut into winter. When she spoke, it sounded like a door opening on an empty room. “Stop laughing,” she said. “Can’t,” Grimnir replied. “Genetic condition. Also the ale.” She tilted her head, studying this dense, noisy creature that refused to dim. More figures budded behind her—thin as parchment, faces hollowed by the kind of sorrow that wears through worlds. Lyra’s voice was level. “Name yourself.” “I am what the pass became when the dead were not carried home,” the woman said. “I am the echo of unpaid grief. They left us here. We learned to take.” Lyra’s jaw worked. “Who left you?” “All who hurried past us for faster markets,” the echo-lady murmured. “Traders who counted weight in coin, not bone. Lords who sketched a road on a map and called it mercy. The mountain kept what the living forgot.” She turned to Grimnir. “And you—noisy forge-thing—why do you laugh at graves?” Grimnir lowered the axe. “Because the dead deserve music,” he said. “Because silence is a bully. Because I promised a barkeep I’d come back with coin and I don’t like breaking promises.” He took a step closer, voice dropping. “Tell me what you want and I’ll pay it. In sweat. In story. In steel, if I must. But I won’t stop laughing. That’s my lantern.” For a heartbeat, the pass remembered being a road. The echo-woman’s expression softened into something almost human. “Bring them home,” she said. “Those taken. Those forgotten. Carry them past the cairns. Speak their names as if names were ropes.” Lyra nodded once. “Deal.” The figures thinned and re-formed into a murmur that pointed downhill. They found the caravaners in a ravine where the wind stacked snow like folded blankets. Alive, but faded—eyes washed-out, voices barely tethered. When the first woman recognized the lantern light, she began to cry without sound. Lyra wrapped her in a cloak. Grimnir lifted a boy who weighed as much as a rumor and tucked him against iron like against a stove. “Easy, lad,” he said. “You’re not lost. You’re late. There’s a difference.” They moved like penitent ants through the pass, every step a vow. It took the whole night and a stubborn sliver of the morning. The charm sang when the echoes pressed close, then calmed as the cairns accepted the living procession. At the last stack of stones, the air eased. Breath found its natural sound again; the snow squeaked under boots like normal, trivial music. Frostvik’s roofs appeared, smoke curling up like good news. The town lit when they arrived. Sella from the Red Walrus was first to reach Grimnir, then the mayor, then everyone—hands, blankets, broth that smelled like forgiveness. The rescued caravaners blinked, drank, and shivered back into themselves. Children counted fingers as if checking inventory. A boy tugged Lyra’s sleeve and whispered, “Were we ghosts?” “No,” Lyra said, voice gentle. “Just almost forgotten.” Mayor Torvik stood on the steps with a heavy purse knotted in his fist. He looked at the tired, soot-smudged dwarf and the tracker with ice in her hair and something raw in her eyes. “Five hundred silver crowns,” he said, holding the purse out. “The town owes you.” Grimnir took the weight. It felt like choices. He turned, faced the square, and raised the purse high. “Listen up!” he bellowed, and his laugh rode the words, softer than usual, but steady. “Half goes to the families who waited. The other half pays off the Walrus for last night’s… renovations.” “Half?” the mayor spluttered. “But—your risk—” “I collect in different currency,” Grimnir said, eyes creasing. “Stories. Debts of ale. Invitations to weddings where I’m not supposed to give a speech and absolutely will.” Sella crossed her arms, trying to look stern and failing. “You’re a menace,” she said. “But a generous menace.” “Put that on my headstone,” he replied. “And please, no angels. They’ll get ideas.” They celebrated that night because the living should. The Red Walrus overflowed with steam and music. The cheese wheel—rescued from its unnatural marriage—sat on a place of honor like a sleepy moon. The banged-up mercenaries from the other night slunk in, sheepish. One of them approached Grimnir and cleared his throat. “About the chandelier,” he said, “we fixed it. Sort of.” Grimnir eyed the chandelier, now hung at a jaunty tilt and adorned with pine boughs and a horseshoe. “It’s an improvement,” he decided. “Less liable to fall. More liable to inspire poetry.” Lyra found him at a quieter corner table where the foam settled in the mugs like a winter horizon. She held something small wrapped in cloth. “For you,” she said. He unwrapped it: the wire-and-bone charm that had sung the night open. It was bent now, tuned by cold and courage. “This is yours,” he said. “It will sing for anyone who needs reminding the dark isn’t everything,” Lyra replied. “Seems like your kind of instrument.” Grimnir turned it in his thick fingers. “I prefer axes that double as percussion,” he said, but his voice had a gravel-soft edge. “Thank you.” He set the charm on the table between them like a promise neither needed to say out loud. They drank without toasts for a while. The town laughed louder than its fear, and the rescued caravaners told each other the trick of being alive. When the door opened on a hush of snow, a tall man in black wool stepped in, carrying a staff etched with constellations. He scanned the room and pinned the dwarf and the tracker with a gaze that knew maps not drawn on paper. “Rundaxe,” he said. “Lyra.” He set a wax-stamped letter on the table. “From Jarl Vennar. He heard how you found his people. He asks your help with something larger. Something moving under the ice. It pays in more than silver.” Lyra arched a brow. “Larger than grief echoes?” “Larger than a town,” the man said. “A road through winter itself. We’ll talk at dawn.” He left as quietly as a thought you don’t want to have yet. Grimnir stared at the letter, then at Lyra. The room buzzed around them: clink of mugs, soft lute, chortling arguments about whether ghosts preferred red wine or white. “I did say lunch for the next drinking contest,” he sighed. “But dawn will do.” Lyra’s smile was a small, dangerous thing. “We should sleep.” “We should,” he agreed, and didn’t move. “You’re thinking about the pass,” she said. “I’m thinking,” Grimnir admitted, “about how laughter returned sound to a road. About how that shouldn’t work, and did.” He rubbed his thumb over the charm. “About how the echo-lady didn’t ask for revenge. Just a carrying home.” Lyra watched the fire chew through a log. “Some debts aren’t paid with blood,” she said. “Some are paid with names remembered, and dinners brought to doors that were quiet too long.” He raised his mug. “To dinners and names.” “To roads,” she added. “And to not letting them forget us.” They drank. The town rolled on: someone tried to juggle knives and immediately regretted it; a couple fell in love over stew; the cheese wheel was consulted on matters of policy and gave wise, silent counsel. Grimnir laughed when the knives surprised the juggler, then winced in sympathy when a blade nicked a chair. “Minimal casualties,” he said, approving. “We’re learning.” Later, when the inn quieted and the stars shouldered down close to the windows, Grimnir stepped outside into a night that smelled of pine and promise. Frostvik lay under snow like a sleeping dog—big, warm, and ready to bark at strangers. He looked north, where the pass cut a black seam across the world, and south, where roads coiled into cities he’d only broken furniture in once. He thought about the rescue, the singing wire, the echo’s request. He thought about the way Lyra had said “deal” without asking if five hundred crowns was still worth anything after you counted souls. He thought about Sella’s face when he tossed the purse to the families and the way his laugh had come out softer, as if he’d learned a new note and didn’t want to drop it. “Bittersweet,” he said to the night, testing the taste of the word. “Still sweet.” The door opened behind him; Lyra stepped out, cloak up, eyes bright with cold and thought. “You’re not planning to leave before breakfast, are you?” “I’d never insult breakfast like that,” he sniffed. “Besides, I owe the cheese wheel an apology.” She huffed a laugh, then sobered. “Tomorrow we talk to the Jarl’s man. Bigger work. He’ll want discipline we don’t have.” “He’ll get the kind we do,” Grimnir said. “Stubborn, loud, occasionally brilliant by accident.” He tucked the charm into a pocket near his heart. “And if winter is moving, we’ll ask it to dance.” Lyra looked at him for a long moment, as if measuring something she’d found unexpectedly valuable in a pawnshop. “All right, Iron Jester,” she said. “We’ll dance.” They stood together while snow reconsidered whether to fall. Somewhere inside, a chair scraped, a dog woofed in its sleep, and a mercenary apologized to a chandelier again. Life stitched itself back together with noisy thread. The pass behind them was a road again, bearing new footprints toward home. Grimnir’s grin was quieter, but no dimmer. He gave the night one last nod, as if to an old joke that still worked, and followed Lyra inside. In the morning, they would open the letter. For now, the town slept. Laughter had done what steel could not. And the dead—carried home—were finally silent in the right way.     Shop the Story: Carry a piece of The Iron Jester of the North into your world—where laughter battles the dark and courage wears a crooked grin. Each piece captures the raw spirit of Grimnir Rundaxe and the frostbitten humor that thawed a cursed mountain. Hang his legend with a Framed Print, its rich textures and bold colors turning any wall into a northern hall. Or, for a modern edge, choose the Acrylic Print—crystal-clear and gleaming like his laughter in the dark. Writers and dreamers can jot their own quests in the Spiral Notebook, perfect for recording adventures, tavern tales, or the occasional bad idea worth keeping. And for those who prefer atmosphere to ink, let the Tapestry drape your wall—soft as snow, fierce as laughter, carrying the Jester’s grin into every room it guards. From frost to firelight, from story to space—bring home the Iron Jester and keep the laughter echoing long after the ale is gone.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Winged Promise

There are certain mornings when the world feels suspiciously optimistic. The air hums, the clouds look like they’ve been freshly laundered, and somewhere, someone is definitely about to do something heroic. This was one of those mornings—and Seraphina was already running late. Not that time meant much to a winged unicorn who refused to acknowledge calendars, clocks, or the tyranny of “urgent.” She moved on the schedule of destiny, which is to say, whenever she felt fabulous enough. She trotted into the frost-gilded meadow, feathers ruffling dramatically in the breeze, which was absolutely not an accident. The wind loved her. It had once written poetry about her hair, a fact she rarely mentioned because modesty, like gravity, was a concept she regarded as more of a suggestion. Her mane shimmered in shades of rose quartz and wild sunset, each strand looking like it had a better skincare routine than most sentient beings. Her horn gleamed gold, spiraled to a point sharp enough to slice through bad attitudes and unsolicited advice. “Good morning, mediocrity,” she declared, tossing her head toward the horizon. “Your reign is over.” It was the kind of thing that sounded magnificent when shouted into the dawn, even if the audience consisted mostly of mildly alarmed rabbits. She lifted one hoof, considered the view, and sighed. “Still no coffee stand. Tragic.” To her left, the meadow sloped down toward a grove of trees so ancient they’d stopped caring about photosynthesis and were now mainly gossip hubs. The elders whispered in creaks and rustles—half prophecy, half rumor. Seraphina caught fragments as she passed: “That’s her.” “Wings like sunrise.” “Bit of a diva though.” She smiled graciously, as only someone entirely aware of their mythic status could. Her mission, she reminded herself, was sacred. Somewhere beyond the Frost Plains lay the Sky Gate, a shimmering portal rumored to grant any wish uttered in sincerity. Which, to Seraphina, sounded alarmingly dangerous. Sincerity had never been her strong suit. “I’ll just improvise,” she said, because all the great miracles in history were apparently the result of insufficient planning. Halfway through her morning strut (it wasn’t walking, not with that level of sparkle), she came across a man leaning against a broken shrine. His armor was dull, his hair was thinning, and his expression suggested someone who’d seen too many quests and not enough naps. He looked up at her with the squint of someone who thought they might be hallucinating but didn’t want to be rude about it. “You’re… a unicorn,” he said carefully. “Pegacorn, technically. Wings and horn—buy one, get one free.” She fluttered her feathers for emphasis. “You’re welcome.” “Right.” He scratched his beard. “Name’s Alder. Used to be a knight. Gave it up when I realized dragons have unionized.” Seraphina’s eyes brightened. “Good for them! Workers’ rights are important. Also, side note, are they hiring? I have excellent flame-retardant qualities.” He blinked. “You’re… different from the unicorns I remember.” “That’s because I’m not a metaphor for purity,” she replied. “I’m a metaphor for self-improvement and glitter management.” They struck a deal, as one does when divine destiny meets mild existential boredom. Alder had a map, supposedly drawn by a drunken cartographer who claimed to have seen the Sky Gate from a hangover dream. Seraphina had wings, charm, and an unshakable belief that everything worked out for people who looked this good in gold. Together, they were unstoppable—or, at the very least, narratively promising. As they traveled, Seraphina noticed how the light clung to the frost, how each blade of grass glittered like applause. Alder, meanwhile, noticed his knees. They creaked in protest. “Why do you want to find the Sky Gate?” he asked. She thought about it, head tilted like a philosopher who’d once read a self-help book. “Because I can,” she said finally. “And because every story worth telling starts with someone being slightly unreasonable.” “You think you’ll get a wish?” “Oh, darling,” she said, eyes flashing. “I don’t wish. I negotiate.” The meadow opened up before them, stretching toward the horizon like a silk ribbon left by the gods after a particularly dramatic party. The air shimmered with possibility. Somewhere beneath the snow, a faint turquoise glow pulsed steadily, waiting to be discovered. Seraphina stopped mid-step, ears flicking. “Alder,” she said, her voice low and reverent. “Do you feel that?” He nodded slowly. “Destiny?” “No,” she said. “Wi-Fi. Finally.” And with that, the ground began to hum. The hum wasn’t so much a sound as a polite vibration, like the universe clearing its throat before delivering an important plot twist. The turquoise glow beneath the snow brightened, pulsing with all the subtlety of a disco ball at a meditation retreat. Seraphina tilted her head. “Well,” she said, “either we’ve found the Sky Gate or someone’s buried an unsupervised magical artifact again. I told them those things should come with warning labels.” Alder leaned closer, squinting at the glow. “Looks… alive.” “Oh, wonderful,” Seraphina said, taking an elegant step back. “I do love when reality starts to have opinions.” The light expanded, peeling away the snow like tissue paper until a massive sigil revealed itself—an intricate spiral carved into the frozen earth, glowing from within. It was beautiful, hypnotic, and, crucially, buzzing at a frequency known in ancient texts as “Plot-Relevant Energy.” Seraphina peered down at it. “Do you think it’s one of those ‘speak your true desire’ situations or more of a ‘touch it and die spectacularly’ kind of thing?” “Could be both,” Alder said grimly. “You first.” “Chivalry really is dead,” she muttered, lowering her muzzle toward the light. “Alright, mystery floor ornament, impress me.” The sigil flared brighter, and a voice—smooth, androgynous, and definitely overqualified for this assignment—filled the air. “IDENTIFY YOUR PURPOSE.” Seraphina blinked. “Oh dear. Existentialism before breakfast.” She cleared her throat. “I am Seraphina, majestic creature of flight, horn, and questionable patience. My purpose? To find the Sky Gate.” There was a pause. The kind of pause that suggested divine bureaucracy was at work. Then: “REASON FOR ENTRY?” “Honestly?” she said. “I was promised a view and perhaps spiritual enlightenment with optional snacks.” Alder muttered, “You can’t joke with ancient enchantments.” “Can’t or shouldn’t?” she countered. The sigil flickered as if sighing. “ACCESS DENIED. BE MORE INTERESTING.” Seraphina’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?” “YOUR ANSWER LACKS NARRATIVE WEIGHT.” “Oh, that’s rich,” she said, wings flaring. “I’m a flying unicorn with self-esteem issues and impeccable comedic timing. What do you want, a tragic backstory?” “YES.” “Well, too bad. My trauma arc was discontinued after audience complaints.” The sigil dimmed slightly, almost sulking. Alder stepped forward, placing a gloved hand on her shoulder. “Maybe… tell it something true. Something real.” Seraphina stared at him. “You think reality is my strong suit?” He smiled faintly. “I think you hide behind the glitter.” For a moment, the meadow was quiet except for the soft sound of frost melting under the sigil’s glow. Seraphina’s reflection shimmered in the turquoise light—a creature of impossible grace, yes, but also of contradiction. She sighed, the kind of sigh that rattled the stars a bit. “Fine,” she said softly. “You want truth? Here it is. I fly because walking feels too much like settling. I shine because someone has to light the way when hope calls in sick. And I make jokes because it’s either that or cry sparkles, and that gets sticky.” The sigil pulsed once. Twice. Then exploded upward in a column of light so bright that even Seraphina’s vanity paused to take notes. When the glare subsided, the meadow was gone. They stood in open sky—endless blue beneath and around them, like someone had erased gravity from the to-do list. “Oh, splendid,” Seraphina said, inspecting the view. “We’ve achieved enlightenment. Or altitude sickness.” Alder wobbled beside her on a floating island of crystal. “Where… are we?” “The In-Between,” came a new voice. Smooth, amused, and accompanied by the faint scent of bureaucracy and lavender. From the mist emerged a figure draped in layers of light, their face obscured by a mask shaped like an infinity symbol. They radiated the serene menace of someone who’s worked customer service for the divine. “Welcome, travelers,” the being said. “I am the Archivist of Unfulfilled Promises.” “Ah,” Seraphina said. “So basically everyone’s therapist.” “In a sense.” The Archivist gestured, and hundreds—no, thousands—of glowing scrolls unfurled behind them, each one whispering faintly. “Every broken vow, forgotten resolution, and half-finished destiny ends up here.” “Oh, you’re basically the cloud storage of disappointment.” “A succinct summary.” Alder peered around. “And the Sky Gate?” “It exists,” said the Archivist, “but only those who carry an unbroken promise may pass through. A rare qualification these days.” Seraphina arched a brow. “So you’re saying I can’t get in because I’ve bailed on Pilates too many times?” “Among other things.” “Wonderful,” she muttered. “A celestial TSA with better lighting.” The Archivist ignored her and turned toward Alder. “You, knight—what promise brought you here?” Alder hesitated. His jaw tightened. “To protect the realm,” he said finally. “But I failed. The wars ended without me. Turns out the realm didn’t need protecting—it needed therapy.” “Hmm.” The Archivist’s eyes glowed faintly behind the mask. “And you, Seraphina? What promise remains unbroken in your heart?” She thought about it. Really thought. Then, softly: “To never be boring.” The Archivist paused. “That’s… surprisingly valid.” “I know,” she said. “I took an oath in glitter.” “Then perhaps,” the Archivist said slowly, “you may yet earn entry. But only if you prove that your defiance serves a greater purpose.” “Define ‘greater.’” “Something beyond yourself.” Seraphina groaned. “Ugh, altruism. Fine. Do I save a village or host a motivational workshop?” “That depends,” said the Archivist, “on whether you’re willing to risk everything you’ve ever loved to keep a promise you don’t fully understand.” There was a long silence. Even the clouds seemed to hold their breath. Then Seraphina smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that looked like sunrise preparing for mischief. “Well,” she said, unfurling her wings, “that sounds fun.” And before anyone could stop her, she dove straight off the island, vanishing into the light below. Falling was not new to Seraphina. She’d done it often, usually on purpose and almost always with flair. But this was different. This was not the kind of falling that relied on gravity—it was the kind that relied on trust. The air tore past her wings, streaks of light peeling from her feathers like molten silk. She was surrounded by color, by sound, by the intimate sense that the universe was watching, popcorn in hand, murmuring, “Well, this should be interesting.” Below her, reality stretched open like a curtain, revealing… everything. Mountains folded into oceans; time bled sideways; galaxies spun like drunk ballerinas. She caught a glimpse of the past (she looked fabulous), the future (still fabulous), and something else—something smaller and infinitely more terrifying: herself without wings. Just a creature on the ground, ordinary and breakable. The vision clung to her ribs like an unwanted revelation. She flared her wings and stopped short, hovering in a space that wasn’t quite sky and wasn’t quite dream. “All right,” she said aloud, “if this is symbolic personal growth, I want a refund.” From the brightness ahead, a voice spoke—not the bureaucratic tones of the Archivist, nor the sarcastic hum of the sigil, but something softer, closer, as if it came from behind her heart. “You are almost there, Seraphina.” “Almost where?” she demanded. “Existentially? Emotionally? Because logistically, I’m floating in a plot device.” “The Sky Gate is not a place,” the voice replied. “It is a promise fulfilled.” Seraphina blinked. “That’s it? That’s the twist? I could’ve guessed that on page one.” But the light pulsed, patient, unoffended. It wasn’t there to impress her. It was there to reveal her. And in the glowing emptiness, she understood: all her joking, her glitter, her refusal to be ordinary—it wasn’t avoidance. It was survival. She’d never stopped moving because stopping meant remembering how easily hope could shatter. And yet, here she was, wings spread, defying the gravity of cynicism itself. Maybe that was enough. “All right,” she whispered. “Let’s finish this properly.” The world answered. Light folded inward, creating a bridge of crystal and air that shimmered with every color she’d ever dreamed in. At the far end stood Alder, looking bewildered but remarkably alive. His armor shone again—not from battle polish, but from purpose rediscovered. He looked at her, and for the first time in centuries, his face broke into a grin. “You jumped,” he said. “I fall elegantly,” she corrected, landing beside him. “Also, I found enlightenment. It’s very shiny and only slightly judgmental.” “You did it,” Alder said. “You kept your promise.” “I said I’d never be boring,” she said with a wink. “Nearly dying midair counts as interesting.” The light around them deepened, coalescing into a great arch of gold and sapphire flame—the Sky Gate. It hummed with the quiet intensity of something ancient and utterly unimpressed by drama. A single phrase appeared above it, glowing in script so ornate it was practically smug: ENTRY GRANTED: TERMS MAY VARY. “That’s not ominous at all,” Alder said. Seraphina grinned. “I’ve signed worse contracts.” And with a toss of her mane and the kind of confidence that makes gods nervous, she stepped through the gate. There was no trumpet, no burst of divine music. Just warmth, the faint scent of starlight and cinnamon, and the dizzying realization that she was no longer falling or flying—she was floating. The world had turned itself inside out, revealing not heaven, not paradise, but a coffee shop. A small one. In fact, it was the same shrine from earlier, only now with working espresso machines and a chalkboard sign that read: “Welcome to The Winged Promise Café — Now Serving Meaning.” Behind the counter stood the Archivist, now in an apron, pouring milk with unholy precision. “Congratulations,” they said. “You’ve transcended.” Seraphina blinked. “Into barista work?” “Into understanding,” the Archivist replied. “Every promise kept reshapes reality. Yours demanded joy, so reality obliged.” “And Alder?” she asked, glancing back. He sat at a table near the window, sipping something steaming, laughing with a group of wide-eyed newcomers. The weariness in him was gone, replaced by quiet amusement. He raised his cup toward her. “Hazelnut,” he mouthed. “Good man,” she said, smiling. “I’ll have one too.” The Archivist slid a mug across the counter. On the foam, perfectly drawn in cinnamon, was her reflection—wings wide, eyes fierce, smirk eternal. “So what happens now?” she asked. “Now,” said the Archivist, “you keep your promise. You keep the world interesting.” Seraphina took a sip. It was divine. The kind of coffee that made angels reconsider their dietary restrictions. She turned to the door, where the horizon shimmered like a new page waiting to be written. Outside, the world glowed brighter—perhaps because she was in it. “Well,” she said, flicking her tail, “someone has to keep the magic caffeinated.” And with that, Seraphina stepped out into the dawn once more—no longer searching for the Sky Gate, because she had become it. The Winged Promise was not a destination. It was her. Somewhere above, the universe chuckled softly. “Finally,” it said. “A sequel worth watching.”     Bring a piece of The Winged Promise home. Let Seraphina’s wit, wings, and wonder brighten your space — or your desk, or even your coffee-fueled journaling sessions. Each piece captures the humor, magic, and radiant defiance of her story. ✨ Elevate your walls with a Framed Print — a perfect blend of fantasy elegance and fine-art realism. ⚡ Prefer something bold and modern? Discover the Metal Print, where color meets strength and every feather gleams. 🎨 Add warmth and texture with a Canvas Print — perfect for dreamers and décor romantics alike. 🖋️ Capture your own adventures in a Spiral Notebook, where imagination and ink take flight. 💫 Or keep Seraphina close with a Sticker that brings a touch of magic to laptops, journals, and late-night ideas. Each item from the Winged Promise Collection is crafted with care and high-quality printing, ensuring every shimmer and shadow sings. Because a promise this bold deserves to live beyond the page — and maybe on your wall.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Kiss That Creates Worlds

The Birth of the Ocean Dream The hotel smelled faintly of salt and old paint. Not the comforting kind of paint, the one that reminds you of fresh renovations and clean slates, but the pungent, vaguely toxic odor of something applied badly decades ago. The wallpaper peeled in damp curls, the carpet swelled underfoot as though the floorboards beneath were breathing, and the woman at the reception desk never actually blinked. Still, it was cheap, and the storm outside was not. He dragged his suitcase through the lobby like a guilty secret, paintbrushes poking from the pocket of his coat like contraband. She followed, her heels tapping against the warped tiles, her white dress far too elegant for a seaside dive that probably doubled as a cockroach commune. The storm rumbled beyond the glass doors, thunder growling like an old drunk in the back corner of a bar. “I booked us the ocean-view room,” he said. She raised an eyebrow at the dripping chandelier. “Lovely. Maybe the ceiling will collapse and we can watch the storm from bed.” The receptionist slid the key across the counter without looking up. It was a brass key, heavy and old, stamped with the number 13. Her nails were painted the color of old blood, chipped at the edges. “Enjoy your stay,” she said, though her tone implied they probably wouldn’t. The hallway upstairs was a tunnel of mildew and bad decisions. Carpets squelched under their shoes. A radiator hissed even though it hadn’t worked in years. At the end of the corridor, the door to Room 13 groaned when the key slid into the lock, as though it resented being opened at all. The room was worse. Curtains stained with salt, sheets patterned with mysterious constellations of bleach, a mirror so warped it seemed to show strangers instead of reflections. But the view—oh, the view. The ocean stretched wild and black beyond the glass, frothing waves heaving against the horizon, the storm sky like bruised velvet lit with veins of lightning. “Romantic,” she deadpanned, throwing herself across the sagging mattress. He smiled. “Romantic enough.”     They’d been fighting before the trip. About what, neither could quite remember now—money, art, sex, the usual suspects. But standing there, storm roaring outside, he felt a pull toward her that words couldn’t touch. His fingers tightened on the paintbrush he hadn’t meant to bring. It was stupid, really, carting a tool of creation into a place where everything seemed to be falling apart. She sat up, eyes narrowed. “You’re holding that like a weapon.” “Maybe it is.” Before she could roll her eyes, he crossed the room and kissed her. The storm bent around them. It was subtle at first: a hitch in the rhythm of the waves, a flicker of lightning that froze mid-strike. Then the air hummed, low and dangerous, and the walls of the hotel rippled like wet canvas. He could feel the kiss spilling outward, not just heat and breath, but color. Reds leaked from their mouths, blues spiraled from her fingertips, gold poured from his brush hand. The room filled with it, choking, radiant, impossible. She pulled back, gasping. “What the hell—” “Don’t stop,” he whispered. His voice shook, but not with fear. With awe. So she didn’t. And the world came undone.     The bedspread unraveled into ribbons of light. The wallpaper curled outward and floated away, disintegrating into glowing dust. Through the window, the storm collapsed into fractals: perfect spirals blooming and folding into themselves, an infinite geometry masquerading as ocean. “Are we…” she panted between kisses, “…breaking physics?” He smirked. “No. We’re redecorating.” The hotel groaned, a long, unhappy sound, like the building itself disapproved. The lightbulb overhead shattered, raining sparks that transformed into fireflies midair. His paintbrush trembled in his hand, then burst like a flare, spewing pigment that tasted of cinnamon and champagne, that stuck to their skin in shimmering stains. Outside, the sea rose higher. The waves weren’t water anymore—they were patterns, fractal swirls folding endlessly, curling like fingerprints too massive to comprehend. The storm clouds above bled lavender and gold, dripping paint instead of rain. And still, they kissed. Until she tore away with a laugh, stumbling back. Her dress flickered between silk and mist, each thread unraveling into streaks of light. “Okay,” she gasped. “This is insane. We’re—God, look at us—we’re coming apart.” He looked at his own hands. His veins pulsed with color, paint bleeding through his skin like cracks in porcelain. He flexed his fingers, and the walls obeyed, bending like wet plaster. “Oh,” he breathed. “Oh, fuck. We’re not just painting the world.” She stared at him, eyes wide, her hair catching the glow like a halo. “What then?” “We’re painting ourselves out of it.”     They collapsed together on the bed, laughing like lunatics, drunk on power and fear and lust. Every touch sparked more impossible phenomena: the sheets melted into rivers of watercolor, the ceiling opened to a sky that pulsed with new constellations, the storm outside howled like a living thing. Between kisses, she muttered, “You know, some couples just… go on vacation.” “Boring couples,” he replied. “We’re artists.” The room shook violently, as if disagreeing. The walls rippled outward, stretching, tearing, until the ocean itself bled into the floorboards. Fractal water spilled across the carpet, flooding the room in patterns that curled around their ankles like affectionate serpents. And in the middle of it all, a knock at the door. They froze. The knock came again, louder. Then a folded note slid under the door, damp at the edges. She picked it up, squinting in the kaleidoscope light. Dear Guests, it read in spidery handwriting. Management politely requests that you refrain from reality-warping activities after midnight. Some of us are trying to sleep. Sincerely, The Hotel Staff. She snorted, nearly choking on laughter. “Oh my God. They know.” He grinned, paint dripping from his teeth. “Then let’s give them something worth complaining about.” And he kissed her again. The ocean roared approval. The walls shattered into canvases of living fire. The ceiling fell upward into galaxies of liquid light. And somewhere, deep beneath the fractal waves, something stirred. Something waiting. The Fractured Horizon The next morning began with the sound of waves knocking politely on the window. Not crashing. Not pounding. Knocking. As though the ocean had developed knuckles sometime after midnight and wanted a word. He rolled over, groggy, the paintbrush still clutched in his fist like a child’s teddy bear. She lay beside him, hair tangled across the pillow, her dress—or what was left of it—draped over the radiator like a surrendered flag. The room was humid with salt and something more dangerous, a faint electric tang that clung to their skin. “Tell me that was a dream,” she muttered without opening her eyes. “If it was, it’s one hell of a recurring one,” he said. He gestured to the wall, which was no longer wallpaper but a mural of spirals stretching infinitely inward. The carpet had given up pretending to be carpet and was now a slow tide of fractal foam, curling like lace at the bedposts. She sat up, rubbed her face, and groaned. “Jesus Christ. We broke the room.” He smirked. “We renovated the room.” Outside, the sea was still shifting, spirals blooming in every wave. Entire patches of water folded in on themselves, repeating like mirrors held face-to-face. It wasn’t just an ocean anymore—it was an equation written in liquid, and the math was very, very wrong.     The knock came again. The same slow, deliberate tap-tap-tap. He dragged himself to the window, pulled aside the curtains—now melted into ribbons of watercolor—and peered down. On the shore, standing knee-deep in foam, were… themselves. Copies. Doubles. Two figures kissing passionately in the surf, their bodies flickering like film reels stuck between frames. Every time their mouths met, another spiral erupted from the ocean. Dozens of fractal selves lined the horizon, some laughing, some crying, some shouting at each other, some tangled in embraces too private for polite company. “Oh shit,” he whispered. “We’ve gone viral.” She joined him at the window, squinting at the army of reflections. “Those are us. Those are literally us.” “Don’t be so critical,” he said. “Some of them are pulling it off better than we did.” One of the reflections waved, then mouthed something too far away to hear. Another hurled a rock at the window. It hit with a splash instead of a thud, dissolving into droplets that crawled upward across the glass like insects. She stepped back. “Okay, no. This is too much. We’ve officially crossed into nightmare territory.” He shook his head. “Nightmares don’t leave notes.” As if summoned, another envelope slid under the door. Damp edges, spidery handwriting. She bent to pick it up, heart hammering. The paper pulsed faintly, like something alive. Dear Guests, it read. Your reality distortion has been noted. Please confine your anomalies to designated areas: the lounge, the basement, or the roof. Unauthorized spawning of duplicates on the beachfront will incur a cleaning fee. – Management. She laughed, the sound high and brittle. “They’re charging us for this?” He frowned at the note. “Wait. Did they say basement?”     The hotel basement was not on the map by the elevator. In fact, the elevator didn’t even have a “B” button. But when he pressed the paintbrush against the panel, another floor revealed itself, glowing faintly in gold. She gave him a look—half warning, half curiosity—and together they descended. The doors opened onto a hallway made entirely of water. Walls sloshed with tides, doors swam in and out of existence, and the floor bent like a pier in heavy surf. The air smelled briny, thick with electricity, as though lightning had struck just seconds before. They walked carefully, her heels clicking on something that might once have been marble, his brush tapping nervously against his thigh. “This feels like the part of the dream where we die,” she muttered. “Correction,” he said. “This feels like the part of the dream where we find treasure. Or a minibar.” At the end of the corridor, a set of double doors swung open on their own. Inside was the hotel lounge—or something pretending to be one. Tables floated lazily on the surface of an endless pool. Guests sat in chairs that rocked gently on the waves, sipping cocktails that shimmered in colors not found on earth. A piano played itself in the corner, keys striking notes that spiraled upward and looped back down like liquid staircases. Behind the bar, a man who looked suspiciously like him—but older, sadder, eyes hollow—was polishing glasses that weren’t there. “Welcome,” the bartender said without smiling. “You’ve made a mess.” She stiffened. “What the hell is this?” “This,” the bartender said, gesturing to the pool, “is what happens when you kiss too hard.”     They sat—awkwardly—at the bar. The bartender poured them drinks that tasted like memories: her glass fizzed with the sweetness of their first kiss in college, his burned with the bitterness of every fight they’d ever had. Neither could finish. “Who are you?” he asked finally. The bartender smirked. “You, of course. Or one version of you. Every kiss you’ve given her spawned another. Every choice you didn’t make, every word you swallowed back—it all painted itself into being. We’re the runoff. The duplicates. The fractals.” “Bullshit,” she said. “You’re not him. He doesn’t brood like a sad waiter.” The bartender’s smirk cracked, just for a second. “Not anymore, maybe.” From the pool rose another figure—a copy of her this time, dripping with seawater, eyes wild. She screamed, lunged, and tried to claw at the real woman’s face before dissolving into foam. Ripples spread outward, birthing more shapes, more near-twins with distorted features, laughter warped into sobs. “They’re unstable,” the bartender warned. “They want your place. And they’ll take it, unless you go deeper. To the source.” “The source of what?” he asked. The bartender leaned close, whispering like it was a curse. “The kiss.”     The lounge began to sink. Tables tipped. Guests—if they were ever guests at all—slipped screaming into the black water, their bodies splitting into spirals as they drowned. The piano kept playing as it sank beneath the surface, keys bubbling with unfinished chords. She grabbed his hand, eyes wide. “We need to get out.” The bartender chuckled bitterly. “Out? Oh no. You don’t get out. Not until you finish what you started.” The water rose higher, fractals glowing beneath the surface like bioluminescent traps. His brush vibrated in his grip, pulling him toward the pool. He realized—terrifyingly—that it wanted to paint again. That it had to. “No,” he muttered. “Not here. Not now.” But the floor gave way. The bar crumbled, the ceiling dissolved into mist, and suddenly they were falling, tumbling, plunging into the fractal sea below. The last thing he saw before the water closed over them was another note pinned to the bar by a broken glass: Basement fees will be added to your bill. – Management. The Infinite Embrace The water swallowed them whole. Down, down, down they sank, through spirals of foam that pulsed like arteries. Every breath tasted of salt and color, every heartbeat echoed a rhythm not entirely their own. The fractal sea was not water as the world knew it—it was recursion made liquid, equations turned tidal. The deeper they fell, the more the ocean folded back on itself, repeating their descent a thousand ways in a thousand versions of them. She tried to scream, but the sound came out as a burst of violet bubbles that rearranged themselves into words before dissolving: where are we going. He tightened his grip on the paintbrush and mouthed back, bubbles spilling from his lips: to the source.     They landed—if such a thing could be said—on a platform of light. Beneath them spiraled a vortex so vast it dwarfed mountains, a churning whirlpool of every kiss they’d ever shared. Thousands of selves flickered across its surface: their first kiss outside the library, their drunken kiss in the back of a cab, their angry kiss after a fight, their desperate kiss after too many days apart. Each moment looped endlessly, feeding into the storm of love and creation below. She staggered forward, knees weak. “Holy shit. This is… this is us. All of us.” He nodded, though his jaw was tight. “And it’s out of control.” The vortex shuddered, and from its surface rose their duplicates—thousands this time, fractal selves pulling free like strands of seaweed. Some looked perfect, exact copies. Others were grotesque distortions: too many eyes, too many teeth, mouths locked in silent screams. The copies swarmed upward, climbing the platform like ants. The air buzzed with whispers: we are you we are you we are you. She stumbled back, clutching his arm. “What do they want?” “Our place,” he said grimly. “They want to stop being echoes.”     The first duplicate lunged. He swung the brush instinctively, and paint flared outward in a whip of molten gold, slicing the figure in half. It dissolved into spirals, vanishing with a hiss. But more climbed up, dozens, hundreds. The platform shook under their weight. “We can’t fight them all,” she cried. “There are too many.” “Then we don’t fight,” he said. His voice broke, raw and terrified, but sure. “We finish.” “Finish what?” He turned to her, eyes glowing with the same impossible colors as the sea. “The kiss. All of them. Every version. We don’t just make the world—we become it.” She stared at him, horrified. “That’ll kill us.” “No,” he said softly. “It’ll end us. There’s a difference.”     The duplicates swarmed closer, their whispers building into a roar. She felt the pull of them, the longing in their eyes, the desperate hunger to be real. And she knew he was right. They couldn’t outrun infinity. They could only surrender to it. She took his face in her hands, paint smearing across his cheeks. “If this is it,” she whispered, “then kiss me like you mean it.” He laughed, even here, even now. “I always do.” And then they kissed.     The world cracked open. The platform exploded into light. The vortex surged upward, swallowing them, swallowing everything. Their bodies dissolved into streaks of color, paint and flesh indistinguishable, their laughter echoing even as their mouths ceased to exist. Every duplicate screamed—not in rage, but in release—as they merged back into the spiral, reclaimed by the original fire. For a moment, there was nothing but color. Reds that tasted like wine, blues that rang like cathedral bells, golds that burned the tongue with sugar and smoke. Fractals bloomed endlessly, each spiral birthing another, each kiss feeding the next, a chain reaction of intimacy rewriting the laws of reality. She felt herself stretch across eternity, her body no longer a body but a pattern, an emotion, a force. He was there too, everywhere, their essences tangled, inseparable. They weren’t two lovers anymore. They were the kiss itself. The beginning. The origin point. The heartbeat at the center of every storm.     When the light finally dimmed, the sea was calm. The hotel stood on the shore, though it looked different now—cleaner, taller, its windows glowing with warmth. Guests wandered in and out, laughing, drinking, their eyes shining with strange new colors. The receptionist at the front desk finally blinked, once, as if satisfied. Everywhere, the ocean was filled with spirals. Tiny fractal blooms unfurled in the waves, glowing softly in the moonlight. Locals would later say they were just tricks of the tide. But those who stayed in Room 13 knew better. They said that if you listened closely at night, you could hear them—two voices laughing, arguing, whispering, kissing—woven into the sound of the surf. Legends spread. Lovers traveled from all over the world to stay at the seaside hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the myth. Some claimed they saw the couple’s silhouettes in the foam. Others swore that when they kissed on the balcony, the stars above shifted slightly, as though aligning to watch. And the hotel—no longer shabby, no longer forgotten—became a place of pilgrimage. Not for the beds, not for the bar, but for the story whispered in every room: that once, two lovers had kissed so hard they created a world, and that world had never quite stopped dreaming of them.     Somewhere, deep beneath the calm water, the spirals continued to bloom. Patterns within patterns, kisses within kisses. And at the very center, inseparable, eternal, they remained. The kiss that had created worlds.     Bring “The Kiss That Creates Worlds” Into Your World Love doesn’t just exist on the canvas — now it can live in your space, your style, and your story. Inspired by Bill and Linda Tiepelman’s The Kiss That Creates Worlds, each piece captures the same fusion of passion, surrealism, and dreamlike motion that defines the art itself. Explore our curated collection below and make this moment of creation your own: Framed Print – Elevate your space with museum-quality framing that accentuates every glowing detail of this surreal embrace. Acrylic Print – Experience luminous depth and clarity; colors appear suspended in air, much like the lovers themselves. Tote Bag – Carry creation with you. A durable, artful bag that turns errands into acts of expression. Beach Towel – Dry off in divine design. Perfect for seaside dreamers and lovers of color-splashed horizons. Shower Curtain – Let surreal romance transform your morning ritual. Bold, vivid, and impossible to ignore. Each item brings the story’s energy to life — vibrant, emotive, and utterly unique. Visit unfocussed.com to explore more art that blurs the boundary between dream and reality.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Tree Remembers

The Audit of Seasons At dusk, the four-seasons tree stood in a desert that looked like someone had forgotten to water the planet for a few millennia. The sky was painted in molten apricot and bruised lavender, and the sand shimmered as if it had once been a sea that decided to retire early. Between the dunes stretched a procession of mirrors—tall, sleek, unapologetically smug—each one capturing the same tree in a different mood, as though nature had hired a photographer to document her emotional range. The tree, with its crown of white blossoms shading into flame-tipped leaves, was clearly the star of the show. Its reflection shimmered in a mirror-pool at its roots, an upside-down echo more honest than truth. “You’re early,” said the tree, without opening a mouth—because of course it didn’t have one. “Time waits for no one,” I replied. “Neither does curiosity.” The tree chuckled, a dry, papery sound like old letters catching fire. “Curiosity,” it said, “is how deserts get populated with mirrors and metaphors.” We stood in silence for a while—the kind of silence that hums with ancient Wi-Fi. The tree looked tired but radiant, like someone who’s lived through every breakup, job interview, and therapy session imaginable, yet still gets up in the morning looking fabulous. “You’ve seen things,” I said, the way people say to veterans and mothers. “Yes,” it sighed. “I’ve been spring, summer, autumn, winter, and every awkward in-between. I’ve shed myself more times than I can count, yet here I am—still photosynthesizing.” It paused, then added with a grin I could somehow feel: “Growth is exhausting, darling, but what’s the alternative? Stagnation?” A hot breeze passed, carrying the smell of dust and nostalgia. I looked at the nearest mirror; it showed the tree in full spring bloom, pink and naive, dripping with newness. The next one was summer—a blaze of confidence and overcommitment. Then autumn—gold and wistful, the color of goodbyes said gracefully. And finally, winter—a study in restraint, the art of keeping still until the world remembers warmth again. “You’re like an entire life in syndication,” I said. “Reruns and all.” The tree laughed—a sound that rustled across centuries. “I call it an audit,” it said. “Every reflection is a receipt for who I’ve been. I keep them here so I don’t forget.” I blinked. “You keep mirrors of yourself in the desert to remember?” The tree shrugged its branches. “Don’t you keep photos on your phone? Same idea. Just with better lighting.” I tried to look closer into one of the mirrors, but my reflection kept changing—sometimes older, sometimes younger, sometimes not me at all. It was unnerving, like catching your future self peeking around a corner. “Why am I here?” I asked finally. “Because,” said the tree, “you asked to see what remembering looks like. You wanted to know how something can lose everything, season after season, and still call it growth.” It tilted slightly, as though confiding in me. “Humans think memory is about holding on. It’s not. It’s about composting. You turn old stories into soil.” That line hit like a sermon whispered through roots. I thought of my own seasons—the messy rebirths, the times I mistook exhaustion for stability. “So you forget on purpose?” I asked. “No,” said the tree, “I remember until it stops hurting, then I let the wind have it. Pain makes good mulch.” It glanced toward the horizon, where the sun was melting into amber glass. “You can’t grow without decay. You can’t blossom if you hoard every fallen leaf like a receipt for suffering.” I nodded, pretending to understand but also realizing this tree had just summarized every self-help book I’d ever read. The mirrors caught the fading light, bending it into endless corridors of possibility. Somewhere far off, the sand began to sing—a soft vibration, like the desert humming to itself. “Do they ever break?” I asked, gesturing to the mirrors. “Sometimes,” the tree said. “Usually when I’m trying to learn humility. Reflection can only hold so much truth before it cracks.” I wanted to laugh, cry, and apply for an emotional support cactus all at once. The air shimmered, and the horizon folded inward like origami. “So what happens when you finish your audit?” I asked. The tree considered this for a long time, then said, “When I’ve remembered enough, I’ll forget on purpose again. That’s how eternity keeps itself interesting.” It was then I realized the mirrors weren’t really about time—they were about perspective. Every season was a version of the self, valid, temporary, and completely convinced it was the main character. And maybe that was the cosmic joke: none of them were wrong. As the light deepened into velvet dusk, I turned to leave. “Any advice for a mortal with too many tabs open in their soul?” I asked. The tree rustled thoughtfully. “Yes,” it said. “Close the ones that don’t sing back.” Reflections File for Appeal The mirrors began to hum. Not a polite hum, either—this was the deep, resonant kind that suggested something ancient had just logged in. A dozen panels tilted toward me, catching light that shouldn’t have existed, and the reflections started talking over each other like guests on a bad podcast. Each mirror claimed to represent the “true self” of the tree, which felt very on-brand for any group chat involving identity. The spring mirror, all blush and optimism, fluttered with blossoms. “I’m the version that believed love fixes everything,” it chirped. The summer mirror rolled its leaves. “Please. You were just hormones with a fragrance.” Autumn swirled with copper and nostalgia, sipping imaginary chai. “I’m the one who learned to let go.” Winter just stared, frosted and unbothered. “I’m the only one who knows how to rest,” it said coolly. The tree sighed like a therapist who’s seen too much. “Every year,” it muttered, “they do this. They file for appeal.” I folded my arms. “Appeal?” “Yes,” the tree said, “each version thinks it deserves to be the permanent me. None of them realize permanence is a performance.” The spring reflection gasped. “That’s cruel!” “That’s honest,” said winter. “Cruelty is honesty with frostbite.” I stood there, ankle-deep in sand and metaphors, feeling like an unwilling jury member in the trial of time. Each reflection wanted validation. Spring wanted praise for being brave enough to begin. Summer wanted credit for abundance. Autumn demanded acknowledgment for grace in loss. Winter just wanted everyone to shut up. “You’re all exhausting,” I said, rubbing my temples. “No offense.” “None taken,” said autumn sweetly. “Exhaustion is part of growth. We wear it like eyeliner.” The desert wind stirred again, carrying with it whispers that might have been memories—or ads for enlightenment. I noticed the mirrors had arranged themselves into a rough circle. “What’s happening?” I asked. “The tribunal,” said the tree. “Every so often, I let them argue until they realize they’re the same being. It saves me therapy money.” The tree turned one limb toward me. “You’re welcome to watch, but fair warning—it gets existential.” Spring was first to speak. “I represent hope,” it declared, petals trembling. “Without me, nothing starts. I am joy, I am innocence, I am the first spark after the dark.” Summer followed, voice loud and confident. “Without me, you’d still be a seedling. I bring strength, growth, abundance, and the glorious illusion of control.” Autumn, ever the poet, swayed in slow motion. “Control is overrated. I’m the beauty of letting go. I’m what happens when you stop pretending everything lasts.” Winter waited, then finally said, “I am silence, and that’s why you all fear me. But in silence, the roots remember what to become next.” The arguments continued until I began to suspect that introspection, like tequila, should be taken in moderation. I watched as the mirrors flickered through scenes of lives not quite mine: a younger me dancing in the rain, an older me writing apologies too late, a version that moved to the mountains, another that never left home. Each reflection carried a what-if. “Are you showing me my seasons?” I asked. The tree’s bark creaked like laughter. “I told you, reflection gets greedy. It loves a good cross-reference.” I wanted to look away, but one mirror held me hostage—autumn again. In it, I was sitting under a version of the tree with hair the color of leaves, reading a book titled *How to Be Fine With Almost Everything.* My reflection looked up, smiled, and said, “You’re late.” “Late for what?” I asked. “Acceptance,” she said. “We’ve been waiting for you.” The mirror shimmered, and I caught the scent of cinnamon, loss, and something like peace. I turned back to the tree. “Do you remember all this?” It nodded slowly. “Every leaf, every word, every mistake. Memory’s a burden, but forgetting too much makes you hollow. Balance is survival.” The tribunal reached what looked like a consensus—or exhaustion. The mirrors dimmed, muttering philosophical half-apologies. “So who wins?” I asked. “None of them,” said the tree. “They merge. They dissolve back into me. That’s the trick of being whole—you stop trying to crown one version as better than the others.” The mirrors folded inward, swallowing their light. I realized then that wholeness wasn’t a shape but a sound—the soft click of fragments agreeing to coexist. “Doesn’t it hurt?” I asked. “It always hurts,” said the tree, “but pain’s just the echo of growth. You humans spend so much energy avoiding it, when really, it’s the receipt for transformation.” The desert shimmered in response, like the horizon nodding. “You talk like a philosopher,” I said. “I talk like something that’s had time to practice,” the tree replied. We watched as the mirrors sank slightly into the sand, forming a mosaic that caught starlight. “You said they file for appeal,” I said. “Do they ever win?” The tree chuckled. “Once, autumn almost did. She argued that surrender is the truest form of wisdom. But then spring got sentimental and bloomed all over the paperwork.” A silence settled again, but this one was kind—the silence of digestion after truth. I sat beneath the tree, tracing patterns in the sand. “What happens if you stop remembering?” I asked. “Then I start dying,” said the tree softly. “Not all at once—just in pieces. A memory lost here, a meaning misplaced there. That’s how deserts grow.” I nodded. “That’s how people grow, too.” The tree’s branches quivered in agreement. “Exactly. Every forgetting makes room for something else. The trick is to choose what you forget.” I laughed. “That sounds like selective amnesia.” “No,” said the tree, “it’s curation.” The mirrors flickered again, and now they showed not the seasons but *moments*: hands planting a seed, lovers arguing under rain, someone crying in a parked car, a child chasing dust motes. Each one glowed for a second before fading. “These aren’t all mine,” I said. “No,” said the tree. “They’re borrowed. Memory leaks between living things like stories through generations. Every root, every footprint leaves a whisper.” That thought lodged somewhere deep in me, between cynicism and wonder. “So, basically, we’re all plagiarists of experience?” The tree laughed again—an indulgent sound. “Exactly! We remix existence. Every life is a cover song. The melody’s universal, but the lyrics are yours.” I wanted to ask more—about purpose, time, and why enlightenment never comes with a user manual—but the mirrors began dimming. “They’re tired,” said the tree. “Reflection burns a lot of energy.” “So does overthinking,” I said. “Oh,” replied the tree, “that’s your species’ national pastime.” We sat there as twilight deepened, surrounded by a soft halo of starlit glass. The desert cooled, and a faint breeze carried the smell of unseen flowers—ghost blossoms that only bloom after dark. “You ever get bored of all this wisdom?” I asked. “Constantly,” said the tree. “But boredom is where wonder hibernates. You just have to poke it gently until it wakes.” It occurred to me that maybe the tree wasn’t just remembering—it was teaching itself how to keep remembering differently. “So what’s next?” I asked. The tree rustled thoughtfully. “Soon, I’ll rest. The mirrors will sleep. And you’ll dream of me as something else—perhaps a metaphor, perhaps a coffee mug quote. But you’ll remember enough to come back.” “Why me?” I asked. “Because you listened,” said the tree. A final mirror lingered, half-buried in sand. It showed me walking away, already smaller, already fading into dusk. I wanted to step through, to see where that path led, but the tree stopped me. “Not yet,” it said. “Reflection without action is just narcissism.” I sighed. “Then what do I do?” The tree leaned slightly, its shadow brushing mine. “Go live enough that your next reflection has something new to say.” Terms and Conditions of Becoming By the time the last mirror stopped shimmering, the desert had fallen into that hushed, pre-midnight stillness when even the stars seem to be holding their breath. The four-seasons tree stood quieter now, its branches curved like parentheses around the night. “You look tired,” I said. “Tired,” the tree replied, “is what wisdom feels like on the surface.” It stretched, creaking softly, bark glowing faintly in moonlight. “You’ve met my reflections, listened to my bickering memories, and watched me argue with myself. Most people stop at recognition. You stayed for reconciliation.” I sank into the cool sand, cross-legged, pretending the ground was a yoga mat for the soul. “So what now?” I asked. “Now,” said the tree, “we sign the contract of becoming.” One of its roots nudged a scroll from the sand—a parchment made of light, words written in looping constellations. “It’s the fine print of existence,” the tree continued. “Nobody reads it, and everyone agrees to it at birth.” The scroll unfurled toward me. The first line read: ‘You will change without notice. Updates occur automatically.’ Below it, smaller clauses glittered in the starlight: • Item 1: Every joy carries an expiration date, but the memory may be renewed indefinitely. • Item 2: Grief is not an error message. It’s maintenance. • Item 3: You may love things that outgrow you. That’s allowed. • Item 4: All warranties on innocence are void after adolescence. • Item 5: Laughter is the default language. Use it liberally. “Seems fair,” I said. “Fair?” the tree chuckled. “It’s cosmic bureaucracy. You either grow or you crash the system.” It shook itself, and hundreds of tiny lights drifted from its branches—fireflies, maybe, or leftover pixels from a sunset that hadn’t fully logged out. They swirled around us, forming constellations shaped like memories: a bicycle, a first kiss, a hospital corridor, a cup of coffee still warm. Each image pulsed once, then vanished. “Those are mine,” said the tree, “but you recognize them because experience is an open-source code.” We watched the lights fade. “You said becoming has terms,” I murmured. “What about the conditions?” The tree’s roots shifted, tracing spirals in the sand. “Ah, the conditions. Those are trickier.” A pause, as if considering whether I was ready. “Condition one: You must accept that endings are punctuation, not punishment. Condition two: You must practice astonishment daily. Condition three: Forgive yourself for updates that take longer to install.” Something inside me unclenched. “And if I don’t agree?” I asked. The tree smiled—a rustle more than a gesture. “Then you’ll still become, just slower, with more buffering.” It tapped the ground, and the mirrors, buried beneath the sand, began to hum again—softly this time, like a lullaby from the underworld. “They’re backing up your progress,” the tree said. “It’s automatic. Even pain gets archived.” A coyote cried somewhere beyond the dunes, and the sound rolled toward us like an echo that had lost its owner. “Does it ever end?” I asked. “Endings are for stories,” the tree said gently. “You’re not a story. You’re a library. Every time you think you’ve reached the last page, another branch starts writing.” The wind shifted. The smell of rain—actual rain—threaded through the air, impossible in this place of dust and mirrors. “Weather forecast?” I joked. “No,” said the tree. “Remembrance. Every storm begins as nostalgia for rivers.” I laughed despite myself. “You’re incredibly poetic for a plant.” “Photosynthesis of metaphors,” it said smugly. “It’s a gift.” The first drops fell, heavy and slow, like punctuation marks. They hit the mirrors, making ripples that didn’t fade. Each droplet turned into a tiny lens, refracting a different face of the tree—and of me. “Look closer,” said the tree. In one droplet, I saw my younger self promising to change. In another, my future self already forgiving the failures yet to happen. “Is that what remembering is?” I asked. “No,” said the tree. “That’s what living kindly looks like from the outside.” Lightning flared, revealing how vast the desert really was—mirrors stretching to the horizon, each catching a fragment of sky. “You built all this?” I whispered. “No,” said the tree. “I simply grew where reflection needed an anchor.” It paused, its trunk gleaming like wet bronze. “Every soul needs one.” The rain intensified, washing sand from half-buried mirrors until they shone again. In their collective shimmer, the desert looked alive—a thousand realities blinking awake. The tree’s voice softened. “Listen carefully. This is the part most people miss: You’re not separate from the reflection. You are the reflection remembering itself.” The words sank through me like roots seeking water. I wanted to believe I understood, though I suspected understanding wasn’t the point. “So what happens when I leave?” I asked. “You won’t,” said the tree. “You’ll carry the desert inside. Every time you hesitate between versions of yourself, you’ll hear me rustle. Every time you choose kindness over control, you’ll grow another ring.” We sat together until the rain softened to a mist. The mirrors dimmed, their light now internal, like ideas settling in for the night. I stood, brushing sand from my hands. “Anything else in the fine print?” I asked. “One last clause,” said the tree. “You must share what you’ve learned without pretending you discovered it alone.” I laughed. “A collaborative enlightenment license?” “Exactly,” said the tree. “Creative Commons of the soul.” It stretched once more, shaking droplets that turned into tiny stars. “Now go. The world needs more witnesses who’ve read the terms.” As I walked away, dawn seeped in, quiet and forgiving. Behind me, the four-seasons tree glowed briefly, then folded its reflections back into silence. The desert was already forgetting, but gently—like someone closing a beloved book. When I looked down, I realized a small mirror shard had lodged itself in the cuff of my sleeve. It caught the new sunlight and winked. In it, for a moment, I saw the tree again—alive, amused, infinite. Then only my own face, smiling the kind of smile that happens when you finally realize the story was about remembering how to begin.     Bring “The Tree Remembers” Into Your World If this story stirred something in you — that quiet echo of renewal, humor, and human persistence — you can keep its spirit alive beyond the page. Each product below features the original artwork "The Tree Remembers" by Bill and Linda Tiepelman, crafted to bring beauty, reflection, and inspiration into your everyday spaces. ✨ Adorn your wall with a Framed Print, where the timeless imagery transforms your room into a sanctuary of growth and remembrance. 💧 Choose the sleek Acrylic Print for a contemporary, luminous display that captures every reflective detail of the tree’s surreal world. 🖋️ Capture your own thoughts, dreams, or daily awakenings in a Spiral Notebook — because reflection is how growth begins. 💌 Share a piece of soul and story with someone special through a Greeting Card that says more than words ever could. 🌙 And when the night grows quiet, wrap yourself in the warmth of meaning with a Fleece Blanket, soft as memory, comforting as time. Each piece is a reminder: growth is ongoing, reflection is sacred, and beauty belongs wherever you choose to remember.

por Bill Tiepelman

Tideborn Majesty

The Splash Heard 'Round the Realms By the time the unicorn hit the water, the Kingdom of Larethia was already in trouble. Taxes were up, pants were down, and the High Chancellor had accidentally turned himself into a marzipan swan mid-speech at a war council. In short, things were spiraling. Then came the splash. Not just any splash, mind you. This was the sort of splash that made sirens clutch their pearls and krakens raise a brow. It came at twilight—when the veil between realms wore thin—and it was made by a creature so radiant, so unreasonably majestic, it seemed the gods had been holding out on the good stuff. From the ocean leapt a horned beast of impossible beauty. Wings like opalescent glass arched into the dying sun. Its mane flowed like moonlight drunk on champagne. And its horn? Let’s just say it looked like the sort of thing that could skewer both a dragon and your ex’s ego in a single thrust. “Oh no,” muttered the wizard Argonath, sipping from a mug that read ‘#1 Spellslinger’. “It’s one of those.” “A flying unicorn?” asked Lady Cressida, princess by birth, chaos incarnate by choice. She was halfway through her third goblet of fermented starlight and already considering seducing the phenomenon for political leverage—or for fun. Whichever came first. “Not just a unicorn,” Argonath said grimly. “That’s a Tideborn. One of the First Five. Rumor says they show up only when realms are about to collapse or… begin anew.” The creature touched down on the shore in a spray of light and seafoam, hooves sizzling against the sand like divine frying pans. Every seagull in a three-mile radius passed out in unison. One exploded. No one talked about it. Lady Cressida stepped forward, tipsy but intrigued. “Well then. I suppose we ought to say hello to the end of the world—or the start of a rather exciting chapter.” She straightened her crown, adjusted her cleavage (always part of diplomacy), and began walking toward the Tideborn with the unshakable confidence of a woman who’d once won a duel using only a spoon and three insults. The unicorn stared back. Its eyes gleamed like galaxies having an argument. Time hiccuped. The waves paused. Somewhere, a bard fainted in anticipatory excitement. And just like that… destiny blinked first. Diplomacy by Firelight and Feral Sass The unicorn did not speak—not in the usual sense. No lips moved. No vocal cords vibrated. Instead, words pressed directly into the minds of everyone present, like a silk-wrapped brick of pure intention. It was a telepathic voice, deep and resonant, with the seductive growl of thunder and the tactless honesty of a drunk philosopher. “You smell like bad decisions and premature declarations of war,” it said bluntly to Lady Cressida. “I like you.” Cressida beamed. “Likewise. Are you available for a seasonal alliance or, perhaps, something slightly more carnal with a diplomatic twist?” The Tideborn blinked. Galaxies in its eyes collapsed and reformed into spirals of amused indifference. Argonath muttered into his beard. “Of course. She’s trying to seduce the doomsday horse.” The beach was now crowded. Word of the divine splash had spread like wildfire through the realm. Locals, nobles, spellcasters, and three absolutely feral bards arrived breathless, notebooks at the ready. The bards immediately began arguing over what key the unicorn’s hooves were clapping in. One claimed it was E minor; another swore it was the rhythm of heartbreak. The third burst into spontaneous song and was immediately punched by the other two. Meanwhile, the sky shifted. Stars began to shimmer more boldly, and the moon rose too fast, like it had just remembered it was late for something. The fabric of reality puckered slightly, like a bedsheet being sat on by a cosmic weight. “This realm is on the cusp,” the unicorn said, pacing with the grace of a god doing yoga. “You’ve abused its magic, ignored its tides, and scheduled war like it was a midweek brunch. But—” the beast paused dramatically, “there is potential. Unruly. Unrefined. Unreasonably attractive.” Its eyes landed again on Cressida. “Well,” she purred, “I do exfoliate with dragon ash and self-belief.” Argonath rolled his eyes so hard a minor wind spell activated. “What the beast is saying, Princess, is that the realm might not be doomed if we pull our collective heads out of our collective rears.” “I know what it said,” Cressida snapped. “I’m fluent in ego.” The unicorn—whose name, it revealed, was something unpronounceable in mortal tongue but roughly translated to ‘She Who Kicks Stagnation in the Teeth’—lowered its horn and drew a line in the sand. Literally. It was a glowing line, pulsing like a heartbeat. Everyone stepped back except Cressida, who approached with the energy of a woman about to declare civil war at a brunch buffet. “What is this?” she asked, heels crunching over the warm sand. “A challenge?” “A choice,” said the Tideborn. “Step across, and everything changes. Stay, and everything stays exactly the same until it all collapses under the weight of mediocrity and bureaucracy.” It was a hard sell for a realm built on red tape and unnecessarily fancy hats. But Cressida did not hesitate. She stepped over the line with one sandal, then the other, and for a brief, blinding moment, her silhouette exploded into celestial ribbons and dripping nebula. When the light faded, her armor had melted into something infinitely more badass—dark silk wrapped in starlight, with shoulder pads that whispered ancient battle hymns. Everyone gasped, except for the wizard, who merely scribbled in his journal, “Fashion: unholy but effective.” The unicorn reared and trumpeted a sound that cracked open a passing cloud. Lightning danced across the sky like drunk ballerinas. The earth trembled. And from beneath the waves, something else began to rise—an ancient altar long buried beneath the tides, covered in barnacles, ambition, and salt-soaked secrets. “You’ve chosen rebirth,” said the Tideborn, now glowing from within like an overachieving glow stick. “The rest will come. Painful, ridiculous, glorious. But it will come.” And just like that, the unicorn turned. It walked back into the ocean without a backward glance, mane whipped by starwind, wings tucked tight. Each step shimmered with impossible possibility. By the time its tail disappeared into the surf, the crowd was silent. Spellbound. Terrified. Slightly aroused. Argonath turned to Cressida. “So. What now?” She cracked her knuckles, eyes alight with the fire of new beginnings and scandalous potential. “Now?” She smiled like the morning after a political coup. “Now we wake the gods... and rewrite everything.” The Crownless Reign and Other Awkward Miracles The following weeks were not quiet. As Cressida crossed the Tideborn’s line, reality wobbled like a drunk noble at his sixth royal banquet. Prophecies updated themselves mid-sentence, magic surged through plumbing systems, and one particularly unfortunate palace hedge gave birth to sentient topiary who immediately unionized and demanded leaf conditioner. Lady Cressida—no longer just a lady—now carried herself like thunder dressed in lipstick. Her new title, whispered reverently (and sometimes fearfully) across the land, was Stormborne Sovereign. No coronation. No ceremony. Just a roaring shift in the very bones of the world and an unspoken understanding: she ruled now. Meanwhile, the council scrambled. The Grand Comptroller tried to ban metaphor. The Minister of Protocol fainted upon discovering Cressida had abolished dress codes in favor of “emotional layering.” Argonath quietly relocated his tower to a mountaintop just out of fireball range and began writing memoirs titled: “I Told You So: Volume I”. But Cressida wasn’t interested in power for the sake of it. She had something far more dangerous: vision. With the magic of the Tideborn humming in her veins like caffeinated destiny, she marched straight into the Temple of Refrained Divinities—a grand dome of overly polite gods—and kicked open the doors. “Hello, pantheon,” she said, brushing starlight off her shoulders. “It’s time we talked about accountability.” The gods stared, mid-nectar brunch, dumbfounded. A mortal. In their dining room. With that much cleavage and zero fear. “Who dares?” asked Solarkun, God of Controlled Fires and Bureaucratic Passion. “I do,” she replied. “I dare with excellent lighting and one hell of a thesis.” She laid it out. The cycle of rise, ruin, repeat. The apathy. The interference. The divine meddling disguised as fate. She talked of mortals tired of being the punchline to immortal whim. She demanded cooperation, balance—and a revised calendar because “Monday” was clearly cursed. There was stunned silence, followed by muffled applause from one of the lesser gods—probably Elaris, Patron Deity of Misplaced Keys. It escalated, as these things do. There were trials of wit and will. Cressida debated the goddess of Paradox until time itself had to sit down for a drink. She wrestled the Avatar of Eternal Expectations in a ring of shifting realities and won by making him laugh so hard he fell through his own narrative loop. She even seduced—then ghosted—the demi-god of Seasonal Overthinking, leaving him writing poetry about why mortals always “ruin everything beautifully.” Eventually, even the gods had to admit: this was not a woman you could put back in the box—or on a throne. She wasn’t ruling from above. She was already in the world. Walking barefoot through its contradictions. Dancing in its ruins. Kissing chaos on the mouth and asking it what it wanted to be when it grew up. And so, Cressida made the gods an offer: step down from the altar and step up as partners. Join the mortals in rebuilding. Help without dominating. Witness without warping. Incredibly, a few agreed. The others? She left them in the divine breakroom with a strong suggestion to “sort their existential kinks out before they tried meddling again.” Back on the beach where it all began, the tide rolled out to reveal something unexpected: a second line in the sand. Smaller, fainter, as though waiting for someone else to choose. Argonath stood staring at it. The wizard who had lived through five failed empires, one successful midlife crisis, and seven accidentally summoned demons (one of whom he’d dated). He sipped his tea, now permanently spiked with phoenix bitters, and sighed. “Well,” he muttered. “Might as well make things interesting.” He stepped across. In the weeks that followed, others would too. A baker with dreams of skyships. A warrior with anxiety and perfect hair. An old thief who missed being surprised. One by one, they crossed—not to seize power, but to participate in something terrifying and spectacular: change. The realm didn’t fix overnight. It cracked. It shifted. It argued. It danced awkwardly and re-learned how to listen. But under moonlight and under starlight, something pulsed again. Something real. Not prophecy. Not fate. Just choice, messy and magnificent. And far across the water, beneath constellations no one had named yet, the Tideborn watched—half myth, half midwife to a reborn world—and smiled. Because new beginnings never arrive quietly. They crash like waves. They shimmer like madness. And they always, always, leave the sand forever changed.     Bring the magic home. If “Tideborn Majesty” stirred something wild, wistful, or wonderfully rebellious in you, don’t let it fade with the tide. Hang it in a framed print where dreams spark revolutions. Let it shimmer in acrylic like myth caught mid-flight. Challenge your mind with the jigsaw version and piece together magic at your pace. Toss the Tideborn onto your couch with a throw pillow that whispers rebellion between naps. Or send someone a greeting card infused with the spirit of transformation and winged sarcasm. Magic doesn’t have to stay in stories—it can live in your space too.

por Bill Tiepelman

Laughter in the Dark

The Lantern-Bearer Appears Everyone in the village of Mirewood knew the rules about the forest. The elders taught them in school, the barkeep scrawled them on the back of ale-stained napkins, and old Grandmother Bipple would shout them at anyone walking too close to the edge of the trees. They were simple rules, easy enough to remember, though most ignored them until it was too late: Never whistle after dark. (It attracts unwanted attention.) Never follow the sound of laughter in the woods. (It is not your friends.) If you see a lantern swaying where no lantern should be—run. Of course, travelers passing through rarely knew these rules. And travelers, being what they are, tended to scoff at local superstition, right until the superstition waddled out of the bushes and introduced itself with a smile wide enough to make their teeth ache. That superstition had a name—or at least several variations of one. Some called him Grimble. Others called him Snagtooth. A few claimed his name was Darryl, but those people had been drinking heavily, and possibly had a habit of naming everything Darryl. Whatever his name, the truth remained: he was a lantern-bearer. Not a guide. Not a helper. Certainly not a friend. A lantern-bearer, and if you saw the light, you were already in trouble. The night our story begins was moonless, the sky clotted with heavy clouds, and the woods darker than the inside of a cow’s belly. A group of weary merchants, their donkeys sagging under bags of turnips, onions, and exactly one barrel of something suspiciously sloshy, were making their way down the Old Hollow Road. Their boots squelched in the mud, their tempers were thin, and their conversation had dwindled to muttered complaints about turnip prices. They didn’t notice it at first. A faint glow, like the last ember of a dying fire, bobbing between the trees. Perhaps it could have been a will-o’-the-wisp, perhaps moonlight glinting off wet bark—but then came the sound. The laugh. Oh, the laugh. It began as a hiccup, as though someone had swallowed a kazoo. Then it rose into a cackle that rattled the leaves, wheezed through the undergrowth, and echoed through the travelers’ bones until their spines tightened like violin strings. It was a laugh that said, Yes, I know exactly where you’re going. And no, you won’t like it when you get there. One of the donkeys brayed nervously. The youngest merchant whispered, “Did you hear that?” The oldest merchant pretended he hadn’t. Denial, after all, was cheaper than therapy. And then— He appeared. A squat figure, not more than four feet tall but twice as broad, stepping out of the trees as though the forest itself had coughed him up. His leather vest looked as though it had been stitched together by someone with poor eyesight and no sense of proportion. His boots sagged, patched so many times they had become more patch than boot. His gloves creaked with grime, and his belt buckle was bent in the shape of something that might once have been a circle. But the merchants weren’t staring at his outfit. They were staring at his face. At the pointed ears sticking out like dagger handles. At the eyes, round and bulging, that glistened with lunatic cheer. At the nose—red, bulbous, the sort of nose that spoke of centuries of bad life choices. And, of course, the mouth. That enormous, horrifying, magnificent mouth that stretched almost ear to ear and revealed a collection of teeth that looked like they had been borrowed from several different species and arranged without a clear plan. He grinned. The lantern in his hand swayed, casting a flicker of golden light that danced across the merchants’ pale, horrified faces. “HA! HA! HA! YOU’RE LOST, AREN’T YA?” The laugh that followed could not possibly have come from a creature of his size. It was thunderous, ridiculous, echoing through the trees like a drunk choir of demons trying to sing sea shanties. One of the donkeys sat down in protest. Another began chewing its reins. The merchants clutched their turnips for moral support. No one moved. The woods seemed to hold its breath. And then, in a voice far too chipper for the situation, the lantern-bearer said: “Don’t worry. I know a shortcut.” The Shortcut Now, in most tales, when a grinning goblin-like stranger pops out of the forest at midnight and offers you a shortcut, the sensible thing to do is refuse, bow politely, and run in the opposite direction until your shoes catch fire. Unfortunately, merchants are not known for their sense of adventure—or their sense of caution. They are, however, known for their greed and impatience. The youngest merchant cleared his throat nervously. “A shortcut, you say?” The lantern-bearer’s grin widened, which seemed medically impossible. “Oh aye. The quickest way to the village. Quick as a hiccup, quicker than a sneeze, quicker than a goose falling down a well.” “Goose falling down a—what?” the eldest merchant asked, eyebrows furrowing like angry caterpillars. The creature blinked at him, expression utterly serious, then threw back his head and howled with laughter so violent his hat nearly flew off. The woods joined in, the echoes clattering through the branches until it sounded as if the forest itself was giggling. That was the trouble with him: once he started laughing, everything laughed. The trees creaked in mirth. The wind wheezed. Even the donkeys let out startled, undignified hee-haws that sounded suspiciously like chuckles. The merchants shivered, because there is nothing more sinister than a donkey laughing at you. Still, the idea of shaving two days off their journey was too tempting. The merchants exchanged glances. Their boots were muddy, their tempers sour, and the barrel of suspiciously sloshy liquid was already half-empty. A shortcut would mean warmth, ale, and safety sooner. Surely, they reasoned, a creature with such excellent comedic timing couldn’t possibly be dangerous. “Lead on, good sir,” the youngest merchant said bravely, though his voice cracked in three different places. “Sir?” The lantern-bearer clutched his chest as if mortally wounded. “Do I look like a sir to you? My dear boy, I’m a professional!” “A professional…what?” the eldest merchant asked suspiciously. “A professional guide of lost things!” the creature bellowed, flourishing the lantern dramatically. “Lost sheep! Lost coins! Lost socks! Lost sense of direction! I find it all. Except virginity. That one tends to stay lost.” The merchants coughed uncomfortably. One donkey snorted. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed in disapproval.     And so, against the advice of every folktale ever written, the merchants followed the Lantern-Bearer off the main road. His lantern bobbed ahead of them like a firefly on caffeine, dipping and swaying, sometimes vanishing completely before popping up again with a sudden shout of “BOO!” that made the donkeys fart in terror. The path he led them on was no path at all. It twisted through undergrowth that snagged their clothes, across streams that soaked their boots, and under branches that seemed to duck too late on purpose. Each time they stumbled, each time they cursed, each time they tripped over a log that hadn’t been there a moment before—the Lantern-Bearer laughed. Loud, long, and wheezing, like a broken organ grinder trying to play itself to death. After what felt like hours, the merchants were panting, muddy, and less certain about their life choices. “Are you sure this is shorter?” one muttered. “Shorter than what?” the guide asked innocently, eyes gleaming. “Than the road!” “Oh aye,” he said, beaming. “Shorter than the road. Also shorter than eternity, shorter than a giraffe, shorter than—” he leaned in close, his nose nearly brushing the merchant’s cheek—“shorter than your patience.” He threw back his head and erupted into another gale of laughter. The sound was so loud and so infectious that the merchants found themselves chuckling nervously, then giggling, then outright cackling, though they couldn’t for the life of them explain why. Their laughter tangled with his, until the forest was a roaring carnival of giggles, howls, guffaws, and snorts. It went on and on, until they felt drunk on mirth, lightheaded and dizzy, stumbling through the dark with tears streaming down their cheeks. And then, just as abruptly, the laughter stopped. Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. The kind of silence that pressed on your ears until you heard your own blood sloshing about like soup in a kettle. The merchants blinked, panting, and realized the lantern-bearer was no longer ahead of them. He was behind them. Grinning. Still. Always grinning. “Now,” he whispered, his voice sharp as a knife scraping bone. “Here we are.” The merchants looked around. They weren’t on a road. They weren’t anywhere near a village. They stood in a clearing ringed by trees with trunks warped and twisted into strange shapes. Knots in the bark seemed to watch them, faces frozen mid-laugh. Roots curled across the ground like skeletal fingers. And in the center of it all was a stone well, old and moss-eaten, its mouth blacker than the night sky. The Lantern-Bearer raised his light. His grin somehow grew wider. “The shortcut,” he declared proudly, “to exactly where you never wanted to be.” And then he laughed again. Louder than ever. The kind of laugh that promised Part Three of this story was going to get much, much worse. The Well of Echoes The clearing held its breath. The merchants stood huddled together, clutching their onions like holy relics, staring at the mossy stone well in the center. The air smelled damp and earthy, with a faint tang of iron, like the forest had been chewing on old nails. Somewhere far above, a crow cawed once, then thought better of it. Silence returned. “Well,” said the eldest merchant, forcing a laugh that sounded more like a hiccup, “thank you for your… services, friend. We’ll just, ah, be on our way now.” The Lantern-Bearer’s eyes bulged wider. His grin twitched. He leaned forward, lantern swinging, until the glow carved strange shadows across his face. “On your way? But you’ve only just arrived. Don’t you want to see what’s inside?” He jabbed a stubby finger toward the well. The moss shivered. The stones groaned as if they remembered something unpleasant. The youngest merchant squeaked. “Inside? No, no, we don’t—no time, really—” “INSIDE!” bellowed the Lantern-Bearer, and his laughter followed, booming, crashing, echoing off the trees until the roots quivered in glee. The merchants covered their ears, but it was no use. His laughter slid into their skulls, rattled around in their brains, and leaked out their noses like smoke. They couldn’t escape it. They couldn’t even think over it. The donkeys brayed in panic, tugging against their reins. One of them backed up, tripped over a root, and landed directly on the barrel of sloshy liquid. The barrel cracked, spilling a stream of something pungent that hissed as it hit the ground. The forest floor slurped it up hungrily, and the trees gave a collective shudder of delight. “Oh, that’s just lovely,” the Lantern-Bearer sighed dreamily, sniffing the fumes. “Reminds me of my childhood. Nothing like a good solvent to bring out the nostalgia.”     The eldest merchant, summoning what little courage remained in his wrinkled bones, stepped forward. “Look here, you little imp. We’ve had enough of your games. We demand—” He didn’t get to finish. The Lantern-Bearer’s lantern flared bright, dazzling white, so bright that the merchants staggered back, shielding their eyes. The clearing seemed to warp. The well stretched taller, wider, its stones groaning, until it loomed like a hungry mouth. From deep within, something shifted. Something giggled. Something very large, very old, and very awake. “You hear it?” whispered the Lantern-Bearer, suddenly quiet, reverent, almost tender. “That’s the Well of Echoes. It collects every laugh ever lost in the woods. Giggles from children who wandered too far. Chuckles from hunters who never came back. Even one or two cackles from priests who really should’ve known better.” The merchants shivered. The sound rose from the well—layered, overlapping laughter, hundreds of voices tangled together, some shrill, some guttural, some hysterical, some sobbing even as they laughed. It wasn’t just noise. It was hungry. The youngest merchant dropped his onion bag. The bulbs rolled across the clearing, tumbling toward the lip of the well. One onion tipped over the edge and fell. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the laughter in the well swallowed it whole with a satisfied burp. “Well,” said the Lantern-Bearer, beaming proudly, “that’s dinner sorted.”     Panic set in. The merchants bolted for the trees, stumbling and shrieking. But no matter which way they ran, the clearing stretched with them. The well remained at the center. The trees curved back, folding the world like a cruel carnival tent. They were trapped inside a joke, and the punchline was coming fast. The Lantern-Bearer danced in circles, swinging his lantern, kicking his stubby legs, howling with mirth. His eyes glittered. His teeth gleamed. His voice rang out like a gleeful executioner. “Don’t you see? You’re part of it now! You came for a shortcut, and you’ll never leave! You’ll laugh, and laugh, and laugh, until there’s nothing left but echoes!” One by one, the merchants began to laugh. First a nervous chuckle. Then a wheeze. Then helpless, roaring hysteria. Their bodies doubled over, their faces twisted, tears streaming. They clutched their sides, unable to breathe, unable to stop. Their laughter tangled with the voices in the well, pulled downward, dragged into the hungry dark until their own echoes joined the eternal chorus. Even the donkeys giggled. A terrible, braying, soul-curdling laughter that would have been funny if it weren’t so horribly wrong. Their reins snapped as they bucked and rolled, their laughter tumbling down into the well, swallowed whole.     At last, silence fell again. The clearing was empty. Only the Lantern-Bearer remained, standing by the mossy stones, lantern glowing faintly gold. He hummed a little tune, tapping his foot, as if nothing strange had happened at all. “Well,” he said cheerfully, glancing around, “that was fun.” He adjusted his hat, burped, and wiped a tear from his bulging eye. “But I do hope the next lot brings better snacks. Onions, really? Pah.” He turned and waddled back into the forest, lantern bobbing. His laughter trailed behind him like smoke, curling through the trees, drifting down the Old Hollow Road toward the next group of travelers who thought superstition was just silly old stories. And the well waited. Always waiting. Hungry for the next laugh in the dark.     Bring the Lantern-Bearer Home (If You Dare) If the tale of Laughter in the Dark tickled your funny bone (or chilled it), you can invite the mischievous Lantern-Bearer into your own world. His eerie grin and glowing lantern live on in a series of high-quality art products—perfect for lovers of spooky whimsy and gothic humor. 🖼️ Framed Prints – Bring his unsettling charm to your walls in a beautifully crafted frame. ✨ Metal Prints – Make his lantern glow even brighter with bold, modern metal finishes. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little spooky cheer (and maybe a cackle or two) through the mail. 🔖 Stickers – Add a pop of creepy whimsy to your laptop, journal, or favorite potion bottle. Whichever form you choose, you’ll carry a piece of the Lantern-Bearer’s strange magic with you. Just… be careful when the lights go out. His laugh has a way of finding you.

por Bill Tiepelman

Gutterglow Faerie: A Lantern for the Damned

The Lantern Liar The fae courts called her a disgrace. The humans called her a hallucination. But down in the alleys behind the alchemist's vape shop, they just called her “Glow.” Glow wasn’t your average pixie with flower crowns and sparkled opinions. No, she had chains on her hips, blood on her boots, and a lantern filled with something that definitely wasn’t oil. (Rumors ranged from bottled ghost farts to demon spit, but no one was brave—or drunk—enough to sniff it.) Tonight, the alley smelled like regret and burnt sage. Glow stomped through a puddle of something sticky that meowed at her. She didn’t slow down. “Where the hell is Tallow?” she muttered, adjusting her spiked choker with one hand and swinging the lantern like she was threatening the darkness itself. “That greasy bastard owes me two bone coins and a favor. And I’m not above lighting his pants on fire with this.” The lantern hissed in agreement. It liked pants-fires. Glow’s wings fluttered—thin, crinkled like a dead wasp's scrapbook page, and nearly invisible in the half-light. They hadn’t been pretty since the Iron War, when she dive-bombed a general and got clipped by an enchanted corkscrew. Good times. Trauma, betrayal, a metric ton of eyeliner—her core aesthetic. She passed a gang of sentient trash cans gossiping about a poltergeist orgy, gave them a sarcastic salute, and kept going. The lantern flickered green for just a second. Omen. She paused, spun slowly on the heel of her studded boot. Something was watching her. Not in the “what a hot mess” kind of way. In the “I know how you die” kind of way. She turned toward a pile of half-melted garden gnomes. One blinked. “Oh hell no.” Glow reached into her belt pouch and pulled out a bundle of salt, a fingernail file, and a half-smoked clove cigarette. She stuck the cigarette in her mouth, threw the salt in the direction of the gnomes, and pointed the file threateningly. “Try me, you ceramic creeps. I’m not in the mood to relive my ‘cursed pottery’ phase.” The gnomes hissed, cracked, and sank into the asphalt with a sound like wet celery being chewed by a bitter god. She lit the cigarette on the lantern's flame. The glow turned red. Another omen. Or maybe just a flair for drama. “Tallow better be bleeding,” she growled, and kicked the nearest wall until a portal opened. Portals, of course, are rude little bastards. This one belched smoke and moaned like a haunted accordion, but she stepped through it anyway. Girl’s got places to be. People to stab. Souls to save. Maybe. The lantern pulsed ominously. It always did that right before a Very Bad Thing happened. Which could mean someone was about to lie to her. And Glow hated liars. The Contract of Screams The portal dropped her face-first into a carpet made of toenail clippings and whispered regrets. “Ugh. Tallow, you crusty testicle of a troll, clean your entryway!” Glow gagged as she wiped her mouth with the hem of her shredded lace top. The lantern gagged too—it had standards, despite being forged in the belly of a sarcastic volcano demon. The room was a cube of oily stone and uncomfortable truths. Dim light leaked in from torches made of haunted spatulas and regret-fueled tallow. In the far corner sat Tallow—part troll, part accountant, all sleaze. His skin was greenish-brown, like swamp scum had a baby with moldy sausage. He wore a three-piece suit that was either cursed or just from the clearance rack at Demon-Market. “Gloooow,” he cooed, smiling with far too many molars. “Looking... feral. You bring my payment?” She strode forward, chains jingling like a threatening lullaby. “You owe me, Fungus-Face. Two bone coins, a favor, and the head of that banshee who sang Justin Timberlake covers in my shower dimension.” “Ah, yes.” He scratched a boil on his neck until it squealed and ran away. “But see, darling, I was... restructuring my liquidity.” Glow raised the lantern. It flared neon green. The ceiling screamed. “You know what happens when you lie while this thing’s lit.” Tallow's slime glands twitched nervously. “Okay, okay. No lies. I spent the coins gambling in a centaur pit-fight. The banshee's now a K-pop idol. And the favor…” He hesitated. Glow stepped forward. The floor cracked under her boot. “Speak. Or I swear I’ll replace your spleen with a bag of rusty forks.” “The favor’s been called in. By someone above both our pay grades.” Glow froze. That was rare. Her blood ran a little colder. Her wings itched. The lantern dimmed, whispering things in a tongue older than daylight. “Above our grade?” she said, voice low. “You mean the High Courts?” “Worse.” Tallow leaned in. “You ever hear of the Thorned Accord?” Glow’s heart did a thing. Not a beat—more like a choke. “That’s a myth,” she said, but her voice lacked its usual don’t-mess-with-me edge. “Nope,” Tallow grinned. “Real. Ugly. And they want you.” Glow lit another clove and paced, leather creaking, eyes narrowed. “Why?” “Something about a soul you snatched a while back. One that wasn’t yours to take. Some whisper says the Lantern remembers. And now they want it. Tonight.” Glow blinked. Once. Slowly. Then laughed like a hangover. “Oh, that soul? The cursed jester prince with the obsession for taxidermy erotica? He traded it! Fair and square! I gave him a bottle of vintage nightmare ink and a mixtape of screams.” “Did he know it came with eternal torment and spontaneous glitter burps?” “...It was in the fine print,” she muttered. Suddenly, the room shuddered. A ripple passed through reality like someone stepped on the universe’s tail. The lantern screamed—a high, keening note that shattered Tallow’s wine goblet and set his eyebrows on fire. A black rift opened in the air, crackling with thorns and velvet. From it stepped a creature in a double-breasted cloak stitched with blood contracts. Its eyes glowed like unpaid debts. Its voice? Velvet dipped in a meat grinder. “Glow of the Gutter. Bearer of the Lantern. Breaker of bargains. You are summoned.” Glow tilted her head. “You’re not even gonna buy me dinner first?” “Silence, wretch.” “Rude.” The creature unfurled a scroll with a satisfying *snap*. “You are bound by contract 661, subsection damnation, clause betrayal, to return the soul of His Former Majesty Jester Prince Fleedle the Screech. You have until moon’s rise. Or we will rip the Lantern from your bones and feed your name to the void.” Glow took a slow drag of her clove. “Well... sh*t.” Tallow made a small sound like a dying gopher and ducked under a desk made entirely of weeping wood. Glow gave him the finger. “Fine,” she said. “Tell the Thorned Accord I’ll get their damn soul. But if I’m going back to the Echo Market to dig through the spiritual dumpster fire that is Fleedle’s essence, I’m charging triple.” The creature bowed, then dissolved into spiders and unpaid parking tickets. Glow turned to Tallow. “Give me a map. And some soul-proof gloves.” “I have a cursed GPS and a condom made of ghost hair?” “Close enough.” As she turned to go, the lantern flickered again—first purple, then black, then...pink. Glow stopped dead. “No,” she whispered. “Not pink.” The lantern hummed, soft and sinister. It was an omen. And not just any omen. A *romantic subplot* was coming. “Nope. Absolutely not,” Glow snapped, stomping into the dark. “If anyone tries to flirt with me while I’m soul-diving through Fleedle’s trauma palace, I will eat them.” The lantern snickered. The Soul, the Snare, and the Smooch Nobody Asked For The Echo Market wasn't on any map. It existed in the folds of regret, just outside the timeline where all your worst decisions live. To enter, Glow had to sacrifice a chicken nugget she’d been saving in her sock since Tuesday and whisper her second-worst secret into a pile of self-loathing gravel. “I once dated a selkie who wore cargo shorts.” The gravel wept. A gate opened. Glow stepped into the chaos. The Market swirled around her in sensory overload: haunted vending machines screamed about expired souls, spectral baristas served steaming cups of existential dread, and a mime was locked in a cage made entirely of invisible guilt. Just a normal Tuesday. She pulled her coat tighter, adjusted her lantern—now pulsing with horny energy, thanks to the pink flicker—and ducked beneath a vendor hawking pickled prophecies. “Where would a narcissistic jester soul hide...” she murmured, dodging a floating ad for demonic insurance. She didn’t have to wonder long. A smell hit her like a glitter bomb dipped in desperation. Yes. Fleedle. The scent trail led her to an abandoned theater made of stitched regrets and rhinestones. Of course he’d be here. Drama king to the end. Inside, the ghost of a fog machine coughed, and curtains swayed despite the lack of breeze. She crept forward, lantern held high. On the stage stood the spectral projection of Fleedle himself: grinning, wild-eyed, wearing a ruffled codpiece and a cape made entirely of fan mail and unresolved trauma. “Gloooow!” he sang. “My favorite thief! Come to return my soul or kiss me goodnight?” Glow sighed. “I came to shove you into a containment jar and maybe hit you with a shoe.” “Ooooh, feisty! As always. I kept your mixtape. The screams were so... theatrical.” “You sold your soul, Fleedle. The Accord wants it back. And frankly, I need to not die by bureaucratic implosion.” Fleedle pirouetted. “But I like it here! I’m the star of my own eternal cabaret! Why would I give that up to be shredded into ectoplasmic debt collection?” Glow raised the lantern. “Because if you don’t, I release your browser history to the spectral tabloids.” Fleedle blanched. “You monster.” “Thank you.” He pouted. “Fine. But I want one last kiss.” Glow squinted. “From me?” “No, from the lantern.” She blinked. The lantern purred. It purred. “You are such a weird little freak,” she muttered. “Pot, meet kettle,” he replied, and then leapt into the lantern. There was a musical sting, several sparkles, and an ominous belch. Glow stared at it. “Did... he just... flirt his way into eternal imprisonment?” The lantern burped again. Pink flicker. Satisfied sigh. “You're gonna be insufferable now, aren’t you?” The lantern glowed innocently. She pocketed it and walked out of the theater, barely dodging a roaming saxophone demon. Back in the alley, she kicked the gate closed and snapped her fingers. The world returned to its regular shade of gloomy beige. Then, from the shadows, stepped the Accord’s messenger again—cloak more dramatic than ever, face hidden behind swirling shadows and unpaid debts. “Do you have it?” it rasped. Glow tossed the lantern in a lazy arc. It hovered midair like it was doing a hair flip. “All zipped up. Complete with jazz hands and emotional damage.” The creature nodded. “You have fulfilled your obligation. Your name shall remain intact... for now.” “Great,” Glow said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a cursed tea party to crash and a sentient tattoo trying to crawl off my back.” “One more thing,” the shadow murmured. She groaned. “Of course.” It tossed her a coin. Bone-white. Engraved with thorns. “Payment,” it said. “For services rendered. Do not lose it.” “What happens if I do?” “Your skeleton will be repossessed.” “So… Tuesday, basically.” Glow tucked the coin away. “Tell the Accord if they ever want their egos roasted again, I’m charging double.” The creature bowed and vanished into a scream. Glow stood in the alley, smoke curling from her hair, the lantern pulsing pink and smug. Somewhere in the distance, a cat coughed up a rat that looked suspiciously like it owed someone money. “Time for a drink,” she muttered, pulling on her spiked gloves. “And maybe a nap. Preferably not in a coffin this time.” The lantern flickered in approval. “And no romantic subplot. I mean it.” It glowed pink again. Glow stared. “You're lucky you're cute.”     Take Gutterglow Home If Glow lit up your dark little heart (or just made you laugh-snort in public), you can carry a piece of her chaos into your world. Explore our framed prints for your dungeon walls, snag a sleek acrylic version that even Fleedle would approve of, or capture her spirit on-the-go with a spiral notebook for scribbling curses—or poetry, we won’t judge. There’s even a perfectly sized sticker version for your spellbook, laptop, or lantern (if you dare). Gutterglow Faerie is available now via the Unfocussed shop—support independent art, and feed your weird.

por Bill Tiepelman

Crimson Balloons and Broken Souls

On the stone we sat, back-to-back, as though the world had split us in half and forced the two pieces to lean against one another to keep from collapsing altogether. The stone was not kind; it pressed into the spine like judgment, cold and ancient, the sort of surface that had known more silence than prayer. Above us, the fog carried a dampness that clung to the skin like fingers tracing scars, each droplet a reminder of where we had been undone. In my hand, the string of a crimson balloon bit into my palm. The latex heart swayed above me as if mocking the idea of hope, straining toward a heaven neither of us believed in. It was too bright, too red, against the gray wash of the dreamscape—an accusation masquerading as innocence. Her body pressed against mine from behind, not tender but necessary, like the brace that keeps a wound from reopening. I could feel the architecture of her hat against my shoulder, roses and skulls stitched together in a grotesque crown. It was as if she wore her mourning like others wore silk—deliberately, beautifully, and with intent to wound. My own body was less adorned, though no less scarred. The threads pulling at my lips held a parody of a smile, cruel stitches that made every tremor of emotion feel like being ripped open again. And yet I smiled. That was the trick of it. That was how the world liked me: a doll stitched to grin, a marionette caught in an endless theatre of grief. She whispered then, though her lips barely moved: “If we don’t turn around, we might survive what we are.” Her voice was a lament dressed as advice, a hymn for the broken masquerading as wisdom. Her words sank into the stone between us, seeped into the marrow of my bones. My stitched smile widened at the thought of survival, not because I believed it, but because the cruelty of hope was its own dark joke. What would survival mean to women like us? To dolls held together by thread and memory, to sisters or lovers—what were we?—in the carnival of shadows. Would survival not just be another word for silence? A sound wound through the fog: the faint screech of a calliope, the dying lungs of some circus beast. Each note bent into the night like a bone snapping in the dark, and the melody carried with it the scent of rust and abandonment. The fairground had not been alive for decades, but its corpse still sang. Paper hearts, ragged and bleeding red, drifted down like snow, catching on the strings of our balloons, catching in my hair. I reached up to brush one away and felt the stitches of my arm strain and tug, the skin too thin, the thread too old. I wondered if tonight would be the night I unraveled entirely. I wondered if she would sew me back, or simply collect the pieces and carry them like relics. The fog grew heavier, a velvet curtain closing in on us. Her breathing steadied against my spine, slow and deliberate, as though she was teaching me how to live inside silence. I wanted to turn, to see her face, to know whether the darkness in her eyes matched my own, but fear bound me. Fear of the mirror her gaze would become. Fear of remembering the needle, the scalpel, the vow that had bound us in flesh and shadow. I held the balloon tighter, the string carving a shallow wound into my palm. The blood smeared the red latex heart when it bobbed low, and I thought: so now it truly belongs to me. Love, I realized, is not soft. Love is not candlelight or the warmth of arms. Love is the slow tearing of stitches, the ache of wounds reopened again and again because the body cannot bear to forget. Love is what made us sit here, unmoving, while our hearts threatened to float away. Her shoulder pressed harder into mine. Neither of us spoke again, but everything was said. Survival was not silence—it was scar. And scars are stories you carry when words are too costly to speak aloud. The fog thickened as though it wanted to erase us, to unmake the accident of our survival. Its hands reached into every hollow of the abandoned fairground, smothering the old bones of rusted rides, cracked mirrors, and toppled stalls. And still we did not move, back-to-back, bound by our refusal. The crimson balloons swayed above like sentinels—mocking, fragile, yet impossibly persistent. I imagined if the strings snapped, they would carry the story of our ruin into the sky, rising higher and higher until heaven itself was forced to read it. Perhaps that was why we clung to them, not out of hope, but to keep our misery from becoming eternal scripture. Her shoulder pressed into mine again, sharper this time. It was not affection but reminder: she was here, I was here, and together we were still breathing. Breathing—what a cruel gift. Every inhale tasted of metal, like blood that had soured into memory. I wanted to speak, to confess something terrible, but my stitched smile mocked me. The thread across my lips had grown tighter, as though sensing what I might reveal. The needle that had sealed me was still lodged somewhere in my body; I could feel its phantom sting whenever I thought of freedom. She, too, was sewn—though in different ways. I knew the scars that curved along her arms, the hidden latticework across her thighs. She wore her agony beneath black lace and bones, while mine was paraded for all to see. From the fog came sound again, louder this time. The calliope wheezed into a tune that might once have been joyful, but now limped with decay. It drew nearer, though I knew the machine was nothing but ruin. Perhaps it was memory itself approaching us, dragging its rusted weight across the stone floor of the world. The music carried something with it—a rhythm that stirred the old ache between us. She shifted behind me, and I felt her spine arch, her body pulling away from mine as though she longed to rise. I pressed back, subtly, anchoring her with my presence. She stilled, but the silence that followed was no longer companionable. It was electric, charged with everything we had not said. At last she whispered: “Do you remember the vow?” Her voice cracked on the word, and it splintered through me like glass. The vow. Yes, I remembered, though I wished I did not. It had been made in a room lined with mirrors, where the scalpel gleamed like silver scripture and the surgeon’s hands trembled from both devotion and cruelty. We had promised each other eternity, but eternity has teeth. It devours. What had once been romance had been carved into us, quite literally—stitched into skin, sutured into bone. We had become the covenant itself. To break apart would be to tear open every seam, to bleed the vow into the earth until nothing was left of either of us. “I remember,” I said, though the words bled out between the threads, muffled and broken. She shivered, whether from my voice or the memory I couldn’t tell. I wanted to turn, to rest my stitched lips against her throat, to taste whether she still carried that vow inside her pulse. But I didn’t move. Neither of us did. Stillness was the only thing holding us together. To turn would be to break, and breaking meant the end. Something stirred in the distance: the creak of a carousel, the groan of horses whose painted eyes had dulled into despair. Shapes shifted in the fog—figures not alive, not dead, specters of children clutching candy floss that dissolved in their mouths like ash. They circled us silently, their balloons black instead of crimson, their laughter stolen by the mist. My balloon jerked in my hand, pulled as though yearning to join them, but I tightened my grip until the string cut deeper into my palm. Blood welled and slipped down the cord, staining the air. The balloon dipped low, brushed against my face, and for one wild moment I thought it whispered my name. Her breath hitched at the same time. “Don’t let go,” she hissed. And I knew she wasn’t speaking of the balloon. She was speaking of herself. Of us. Of the thread that bound us, invisible and brutal. Don’t let go. I pressed harder against her back, as though to stitch myself into her spine. I wanted to tell her I couldn’t let go even if I tried, that the vow had locked us together more tightly than chains. But I said nothing. My silence was enough. My silence was proof. The fog thickened still, and the music grew shriller, bending into notes that sliced the air. The children—those pale phantoms—pressed closer, circling tighter, their empty eyes reflecting our stillness. For a moment I thought they might tear the balloons from our hands, drag us into their orbit. But then one by one they vanished, as though the fog had consumed them whole. Only the carousel creaked in the distance, spinning without riders, its horses frozen mid-gallop, mouths open in endless screams. And we remained on the stone, back-to-back, two broken saints in a cathedral of mist. Her voice came again, softer this time, almost tender: “If love is the wound, then we are its altar.” The words pressed into me like knives, and I realized she was right. We were not lovers, nor sisters, nor companions. We were the wound itself, the shrine where devotion and ruin became indistinguishable. Our scars were our scripture. Our stitched lips and stitched skin the liturgy. The crimson balloons, rising and trembling above us, the only hymns we could offer the empty sky. I closed my eyes, and for the first time, I allowed the thought to surface: perhaps we had already died, and this endless sitting was not life, but the punishment of eternity. To love forever is to suffer forever. And we had promised both. The night thickened until even memory seemed muffled by fog. The world around us no longer felt like stone, carnival, or ruin—it felt like a womb of shadows where time had stopped its cruel spinning. We remained back-to-back, stitched together by absence, yet pulled apart by the violence of what we once called love. My balloon strained against its string like a beast desperate for escape, dragging at my bleeding hand. Every tremor sent a ripple into my bones, as though it carried the heartbeat I had long since lost. I wondered if hers beat still, or if she too had traded hers away for stitches and silence. Her voice, low and deliberate, broke the void. “Do you ever wonder,” she said, “whether they made us to be kept… or to be broken?” The question pierced like a nail hammered into my skull. I did wonder. I had wondered every day since the vow. We were crafted, reshaped, bound by a surgeon-priest whose trembling hands believed he was building beauty out of ruin. Yet beauty was not what had survived—only ruin with prettier scars. Were we meant to endure, or to fall apart spectacularly, like glass shattering under the weight of a hymn? I wanted to tell her my thoughts, but the stitches held fast across my lips. My silence was her answer. The fog began to move—not drifting but crawling, like something alive. It slid across the stones in tendrils, coiling around our ankles, our wrists, the strings of our balloons. It was not mere weather but hunger itself, patient and endless. From within it came whispers, soft and multitudinous, voices that were not ours. They spoke in fragments, syllables that slid across the skin like cold hands: stay, vow, bleed, forever. The voices pressed at the thin wall of my skull, and I felt madness rising like a tide. Her back stiffened against mine; she heard them too. Without speaking, we clutched our balloons tighter, as though these fragile tokens were talismans against the encroaching dark. And then—something new. A memory surfaced, unbidden, dragged up by the whispering fog. The night of the vow. The mirrors. The needle. She and I kneeling opposite each other, our reflections infinite, bleeding into one another until we could no longer tell where she ended and I began. The surgeon’s voice trembling as he read the words: “What you destroy, you keep. What you bind, you cannot cut. What you vow, you bleed.” His hand had been steady enough when the needle pierced flesh, when the first stitch pulled skin to skin, lip to lip, scar to scar. We had not screamed, not then. Pain had been devotion, devotion had been ecstasy. Our tears had mixed on the floor like holy water. That was the first night the balloons appeared—crimson, impossible, floating in the mirrored room as though summoned by our wound. They had followed us ever since, loyal ghosts tethered to grief. I opened my eyes and the fog recoiled, as though it knew it had revealed too much. The carousel groaned again, closer now, though I knew it had never moved. The horses’ shadows stretched long across the mist, their painted faces warped into grimaces that were no longer pretend. One by one, their mouths opened and closed, chewing the air like jaws. I smelled rot and sugar, the scent of carnival sweetness rotting into the stench of corpses. My balloon trembled violently. Hers did too—I could feel the vibration of the string through her spine pressed into mine. Together we sat as the carousel of phantoms turned, riderless yet watching. She shifted then, and her movement startled me. For the first time she leaned forward, away from me, and I felt the sudden void of her back leaving mine. Panic surged—cold, immediate, unbearable. My stitched smile tore slightly as I gasped. I reached blindly behind me, desperate for her touch, her weight, her presence. My fingers clawed only air. The fog thickened between us like a wall. “Don’t—” I tried to speak, but the word caught on the thread of my mouth, breaking into a strangled hiss. Her voice, from the fog: “If love is an altar, then it demands a sacrifice.” The words trembled but were resolute. I twisted, stitches ripping at the corners of my lips as I forced myself to turn. Pain seared through my mouth, blood spilling into the fog. When I finally saw her, she was standing—her balloon clutched tight, her body swaying under the weight of her own decision. Her eyes burned, not with fire but with a hollow conviction that chilled me more than any flame. She lifted her balloon slowly, raising it above her head as though it were an offering to the void. “No,” I tried to say, but the blood and stitches made it into a guttural moan. My hand stretched forward, trembling, clawing at the air between us. The fog seemed to laugh as it swallowed her shape, leaving me with only flashes: the skulls of her hat glinting, the crimson balloon straining against its string, the faint trace of her stitched mouth trembling between silence and scream. And then—she let go. The balloon ripped free, rising into the fog. Higher and higher, until the red vanished into the gray ceiling of eternity. She fell to her knees as if her body had collapsed without its tether, as though the balloon had been holding her up all along. I crawled to her, threads tearing, blood marking the stones. When I reached her, she was cold. Her body was still there, yes, but something had gone with the balloon. Something vital. Her lips were parted, not stitched shut but broken, torn by her own will. She had freed herself, but freedom had devoured her. I pressed my forehead to hers, smearing my blood into her hollow skin, and whispered through the torn seam of my smile: “I won’t let go. Not now. Not ever.” Above us, the fog stirred. The whispers grew louder, no longer fragments but chorus. They welcomed her balloon into their unseen mouths. They swallowed it whole, as they would one day swallow mine. But not tonight. Tonight, I clutched my own crimson balloon tighter, string cutting to bone, knowing that I would never release it—not even when it begged. Love, I understood now, was not the wound. Love was the refusal to heal. And so we remained: she, hollow on the stone, her balloon surrendered; I, bleeding and torn, holding mine with a grip that would outlast death itself. Together, we were the story the fog could never erase: two broken souls bound by vow, by scar, by crimson tether. Eternity would gnaw at us, but we would not yield. Not yet. Not ever.     Bring "Crimson Balloons and Broken Souls" into Your World Let this haunting vision of gothic romance, broken souls, and crimson devotion live beyond the page. Whether you wish to adorn your walls with shadowed elegance or carry a piece of its story with you, our collection offers striking ways to embody the artwork’s power. Framed Print — A centerpiece of dark beauty, perfect for setting a tone of eerie elegance in your home. Acrylic Print — Vivid depth and clarity that make every shadow and scar leap into haunting focus. Metal Print — A sleek, modern take that fuses industrial edge with gothic melancholy. Tote Bag — Carry the story with you, a portable shrine of devotion stitched in shadow and scarlet. Each piece is crafted to preserve the haunting atmosphere and emotional depth of the original image. Whichever form you choose, you’ll carry with you the eternal vow embodied in Crimson Balloons and Broken Souls.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Pumpkin Sprite

The Brat of the Patch They called her The Pumpkin Sprite, though if you asked anyone who had suffered her company, the term “sprite” was far too generous. Sprites were supposed to be delicate, sparkly little things—ethereal mischief with a sprinkling of charm. She was none of those. Instead, she was a pint-sized tyrant wrapped in striped leggings, stomping about the pumpkin patch like she’d inherited it from a long line of vegetable royalty. Brat, goblin, demon-child—those were the names whispered when she was out of earshot. But “Pumpkin Sprite” had stuck, mostly because no one wanted to say the other titles aloud where she might hear and take offense. And oh, did she take offense. Her pumpkin patch kingdom stretched at the edge of the village, where the fields dipped into shadow and the soil smelled of smoke and secrets. She lived inside a hollowed-out pumpkin gourd—an absurdly oversized one, fat and orange and veined like it had been force-fed moonlight. Inside, she had carved it into a crooked home: shelves of stolen goods (candlesticks, spoons, and at least three pairs of boots), curtains stitched together from scarecrow rags, and a throne made entirely of gourds stacked and glued together with sticky sap. Her sense of interior design could best be described as “feral flea market,” but she sat on her throne with the smugness of a monarch anyway, hat tilted, chin lifted, daring anyone to question her authority. Every October, she made her presence known. The first chill wind blew, the first pumpkin ripened, and out she came, shrieking like a banshee who’d had one too many ciders. Villagers dreaded this season, though they’d never admit it out loud—because admitting fear gave her strength. And strength she did not need. She strutted into town on boots several sizes too big, stolen from a cobbler who still grumbled about the theft but hadn’t dared ask for them back. Her arrival was always heralded by a crow that flew ahead of her, squawking as if announcing: The Brat is Coming. Brace Yourselves. Her reputation had been earned over years of what one might generously call “antics,” though a more accurate word might have been “crimes.” She once painted faces on hay bales so convincing that a farmer nearly fainted when he thought the straw was watching him undress. Another time, she rearranged an entire pumpkin harvest into crude shapes that no decent villager would admit to recognizing, yet every single one of them blushed when they saw it. She locked one man’s chickens inside his outhouse for three days, and when he finally opened the door, he was nearly pecked to death by furious hens with a new taste for vengeance. The Sprite claimed it was “art.” The villagers called it “grounds for exorcism.” But what unnerved people most wasn’t the bratty tricks. It was the way strange things happened when her mood shifted. If she laughed—really laughed, that wild, shrill, spine-prickling sound—the jack-o’-lanterns carved for All Hallows’ Eve would flicker in unison, as though bowing to her humor. If she pouted, the wind grew sharp enough to sting your cheeks, and frost would creep across windows in delicate patterns that looked suspiciously like rude hand gestures. And if she ever whispered your name—soft, almost sweet—you would find pumpkin vines crawling up your doorstep by morning, leaves pressed against your door like green fingers itching to get inside. Some claimed the vines even tried the doorknob, twisting, pulling, testing. But of course, no one wanted to confirm that part. So, the villagers tolerated her. Better to pretend her pranks were amusing than risk her wrath. Better to chuckle nervously when she shouted “Bow, peasants!” from atop a stump, than to call her a pest to her face. Even the animals had learned their strategies. Raccoons smirked politely when she demanded compliments. Crows rolled their eyes only when she wasn’t looking. And the scarecrows—stitched together with grins that seemed a little too wide—muttered under their breath when she passed by. “Here we bloody go again,” one scarecrow was overheard grumbling, its straw jaw creaking ominously. But the scarecrows never said it too loud, because there were rumors even they weren’t immune to her moods. The Pumpkin Sprite thrived on attention, and she would do nearly anything to get it. She once staged an elaborate “coronation” in the middle of the market square, draping herself in a cape stolen from the church choir, a crown made of pumpkin stems balanced precariously on her head. “Bow to your Pumpkin Queen!” she screeched, brandishing a scepter made of a broom handle topped with a gourd. The villagers clapped awkwardly, trying to smile as she demanded tax payments in the form of candy corn. When the baker’s wife refused, her sourdough loaves rose the next morning with mocking little faces, smirking at everyone who tried to slice them. Deep down, no one truly believed she was just a brat. There was something older in her, something feral and ancient, hiding behind the bratty grin. Why did the pumpkins always seem to swell unnaturally large in her presence? Why did the vines seem to twitch toward her ankles like eager pets? And most troubling of all: why did no one remember a time before she appeared in the village? Some whispered she was born from the first cursed seed planted in the patch, sprung to life like a fungus given form. Others claimed she was the child of a witch who had fed too much blood to her garden. But no one dared ask her directly—not unless they wanted vines on their doorstep and whispers in their dreams. Still, life went on. The villagers endured her October reign the way one endures a toothache: constant, painful, but easier to ignore than to confront. And the Pumpkin Sprite relished it, strutting across the fields, tossing candy corn into the mud, cackling when the pigs scrambled to eat it. She was bratty, she was unbearable, she was terrifyingly powerful. And as the moon rose over the crooked pumpkin patch, lighting her orange throne and her crooked grin, she whispered a promise to no one in particular: “This year… oh, this year will be delicious.” Tricks, Treats, and Tyranny By the second week of October, the Pumpkin Sprite had grown bored of her usual nonsense. Rearranging pumpkins into rude shapes? Done. Painting smug faces on hay bales? Old news. Locking chickens in the outhouse? Classic, yes, but ultimately uninspired. No, this year, she wanted more. Bigger laughs, louder screams, and a stage worthy of her bratty little ego. Mischief was fine, but she craved theatrics. She wanted the villagers to wake up every morning in dread, whispering, “What’s that brat going to do next?” as though she were a natural disaster with legs. Her campaign of chaos began in subtle ways. The baker awoke one dawn to find his oven already roaring, but every loaf inside had been replaced with pumpkins. Perfectly baked, golden-skinned, steaming pumpkins. When he sliced one open in disbelief, he swore it laughed. His wife refused to eat them, but the pigs gobbled them up and then started reciting nursery rhymes in eerily high voices for a week afterward. The Sprite, perched on a fencepost nearby, clapped her sticky little hands and cackled until she nearly fell off. Next, she targeted the blacksmith. She snuck into his forge in the dead of night, replacing his sturdy iron tools with ones she had carved out of pumpkin flesh. Imagine his confusion when he tried to shoe a horse only for the hammer to splatter into orange mush against the anvil. The horse was still laughing two days later, or at least that’s what it sounded like to the smith’s apprentice. The Sprite even left a note in pumpkin juice across the anvil: “Try forging with a sense of humor, you miserable lump of coal. xoxo, Your Pumpkin Queen.” The villagers begged the priest to intervene. He lit candles and sprinkled holy water across the patch, but when he returned to the chapel, every candle was snuffed out and replaced with small pumpkins carved into obscene expressions. The pulpit itself had sprouted vines that wrapped lovingly around it, squeezing tighter every time he tried to preach. By the end of the sermon, he had given up entirely and announced the hymns would henceforth be replaced with screaming. The Pumpkin Sprite sat in the back pew, swinging her legs and humming, smug as a cat who had swallowed not only the canary but also the whole choir. But mischief alone wasn’t enough for her this year. No, this October she wanted a festival. She wanted a celebration of herself, of her bratty majesty, and if the villagers weren’t willing to throw her a parade, she would make one herself. And so the Great Pumpkin Procession was born. She spent three nights in the patch, commanding the vines to twist into grotesque little creatures—living jack-o’-lanterns with crooked grins and glowing eyes. They shuffled after her wherever she went, squeaking and giggling in voices too small for comfort. At first, the villagers assumed it was just another of her cruel pranks. But then the pumpkin-creatures began stealing things: spoons, hats, socks, one man’s false teeth. When confronted, the Sprite declared, “They’re my royal guard. Respect their sticky authority!” Imagine the horror of waking to find an army of knee-high pumpkin soldiers stomping through the streets, demanding candy, cider, or “respectful applause.” The villagers complied, clapping as these orange monstrosities marched in circles, tripping over their own vines and occasionally bursting into puddles of mush. The Sprite treated it like theater, bowing dramatically, twirling on her oversized boots, demanding encore after encore. It would have been adorable if not for the fact that every time someone failed to clap, their door was strangled by vines by morning. “You can’t keep this up forever,” muttered Old Man Bracken, the only villager brave—or senile—enough to speak against her. He shook his cane at the patch where she perched, watching her pumpkin army stomp about. “You’ll run out of pumpkins eventually.” The Pumpkin Sprite gasped as if he had insulted her personally. “Run out? Run out?!” She leapt to her feet, hands on hips, hat nearly falling off. “Old man, do you think me a mere consumer of pumpkins? A user of gourds? I am the pumpkins! They obey me because I am their mother, their queen, their—” she paused dramatically, raising her broomstick-scepter, “—their Brat Supreme!” The vines behind her writhed as though cheering. Pumpkins all across the field swelled, bursting from the soil with loud pops. The villagers gasped in horror as more orange heads pushed up, sprouting jagged grins without any knife touching them. The pumpkin army doubled, then tripled in size, their carved mouths cackling in chorus. Old Man Bracken muttered something about moving to the next village, then shuffled off to pack his belongings. The Sprite blew him a kiss, and a pumpkin soldier waddled after him to steal his cane. By mid-October, the village had become a circus. Every street corner was cluttered with pumpkins, both living and inert. Vines dangled from chimneys like grotesque holiday garlands. Children woke screaming from dreams of orange faces gnawing at their toes. The marketplace smelled perpetually of pumpkin guts, because the Sprite had decreed all trade must be conducted inside hollowed-out gourds. “It’s thematic!” she insisted, stuffing apples into a pumpkin stall and threatening to bite the nose off anyone who disagreed. But behind the bratty giggles and the theatrical flourishes, something else was happening. The villagers began to notice their own shadows stretching unnaturally long in the Sprite’s presence, twisting into shapes that didn’t quite match their bodies. The jack-o’-lanterns she created sometimes whispered. Once, a little boy leaned too close to one, and it whispered his name in a voice that wasn’t his own. He didn’t sleep for a week after that. And always, always, the vines kept spreading. Up houses. Across roads. Curling along bedposts at night, as though searching for a way inside. But whenever fear prickled too deep, the Pumpkin Sprite found a way to deflate it with bratty humor. She’d stick a pumpkin on a cow’s head and parade it through town. She’d graffiti the well with the words “Hail Your Queen” in pumpkin pulp. She even made a point of knocking on doors at midnight, demanding candy corn like a child at trick-or-treat, despite being centuries too old for such nonsense. When one farmer refused, she licked his doorknob and declared his house cursed. The knob grew vines overnight, and he moved away by sunrise. October was hers, entirely and without question. And yet, as the moon waxed and the nights grew colder, the villagers whispered that her bratty antics were beginning to feel less like jokes and more like warnings. Every prank ended with more vines, more pumpkins, more whispers in the dark. Every giggle carried an echo that lingered too long. The Sprite was still funny, yes, still bratty, still absurd. But something in her eyes—green, glowing faintly in the dark—suggested that the festival she was building was not just for her amusement. No, she was preparing for something larger. Something hungrier. Something that laughed through her and used her bratty theatrics as camouflage. And the villagers, foolish as they were, kept clapping. Because if they stopped—if they dared boo the Pumpkin Sprite—they feared what might crawl out of the patch to take its bow. The Harvest of Screams By the final week of October, the village was unrecognizable. What had once been a modest little farming town was now a grotesque carnival of orange and green. Every fencepost had been twisted into a jack-o’-lantern head. Every roofline sagged beneath the weight of crawling vines. Even the livestock wore hollowed pumpkins over their faces, mooing and bleating through jagged grins that made visiting traders turn their wagons around without stopping. The villagers moved like sleepwalkers, exhausted from endless pranks, endless laughter, endless fear. And at the center of it all, like the bratty ringmaster of her own deranged circus, was the Pumpkin Sprite. She had declared herself not only Pumpkin Queen but also “Supreme Harvest Diva of All That is Gourdy,” a title she forced the villagers to chant every morning before sunrise. If someone forgot a word or stumbled over the phrase, their house would be found by noon completely engulfed in vines, windows sealed shut by orange pulp. One poor tailor had tripped over the word “Diva” and was last seen sprinting down the road chased by pumpkins rolling after him like predatory cannonballs. The Great Pumpkin Procession had become a nightly ordeal. Her pumpkin soldiers, now numbering in the hundreds, marched through the streets carrying torches and demanding tribute in the form of cider, pie, and—her personal favorite—adoration. Villagers lined the streets, clapping until their palms blistered, grinning until their jaws ached. The Sprite danced at the head of the parade, hat bobbing, boots stomping, occasionally smiting someone with her broomstick-scepter if they clapped with insufficient enthusiasm. She laughed so hard each night her cackles echoed for miles, mingling with the guttural giggles of her army until it sounded like the whole land itself was mocking the villagers. And yet… as October’s end drew near, the atmosphere shifted. Her bratty humor remained, yes, but the villagers began to notice the way her eyes glowed brighter in the dark. How her hat never cast a proper shadow. How the vines, once cheeky nuisances, now coiled like predators, waiting, patient. The jack-o’-lanterns whispered more clearly, their carved grins speaking in voices eerily familiar, as if mimicking loved ones long buried. A farmer swore one pumpkin whispered his wife’s name—and his wife had been dead three years. He tried to smash it with an axe. The axe rotted in his hands. The pumpkin only laughed harder. On the night of the 31st, the Sprite announced her grand finale. She gathered the villagers in the market square, her pumpkin army standing guard with torches burning an unnatural blue. “Tonight,” she declared, stomping her little boots for emphasis, “we celebrate the Festival of Screams! There will be candy! There will be cider! There will be… unimaginable terror! And maybe some pie, depending on my mood.” The villagers clapped dutifully, though their faces had gone pale. Children whimpered. Old Man Bracken, who had not yet fled, muttered something about wishing he had. The Sprite raised her scepter high, and the vines surged like tidal waves, curling around every building, every tree, every soul present. Pumpkins burst from the earth in the thousands, rolling into the square like an invading army. Their faces carved themselves, jagged mouths snapping, eyes burning with candlelight that had no source. The ground shook as the patch itself seemed to awaken. “Bow to me!” shrieked the Pumpkin Sprite, her voice amplified by something far larger than her lungs. “Bow to your Queen, your Brat, your Mistress of Mischief and Mayhem! Bow, or be devoured by the harvest!” Some villagers fell to their knees instantly. Others hesitated, tears streaming as the vines tightened around their ankles. The scarecrows, who had been grumbling for weeks, finally snapped. “Enough of this brat!” one shouted, its burlap face splitting as it tore free from its post. The others followed, straw-stuffed bodies stumbling forward like a militia of stitched-up rebels. They charged the Sprite’s pumpkin army, swinging pitchforks and rusty scythes. The square erupted in chaos—pumpkins shrieking as they burst into mush, scarecrows ripping vines with their straw-stiff fingers, villagers screaming in every direction. And at the center, the Pumpkin Sprite laughed. Not her usual bratty cackle, but something deeper, richer, ancient. It was the sound of soil cracking, of roots tearing, of centuries-old hunger awakening. “Do you fools think I am your problem?” she howled, leaping onto her gourd-throne as the vines writhed around her. “I am only the herald! The tantrum before the feast! The brat before the banquet!” The ground split, and from the depths of the patch, something enormous began to rise. A gourd so massive it dwarfed the houses, its surface veined with glowing cracks. A face formed on its skin—vast, hideous, grinning with teeth made of jagged stone. The Great Gourd, the primordial pumpkin, the thing from which all vines and gourds had sprung, stirred awake after centuries of slumber. Its voice was the rustle of leaves, the groan of earth, the howl of wind through hollow stems. “Hungry,” it moaned, its carved mouth yawning wide. The villagers wailed. The scarecrows faltered. Even the Sprite’s pumpkin soldiers trembled, their candlelit eyes flickering nervously. But the Pumpkin Sprite only threw back her head and howled with glee. “Yes! YES! Feast, my father! Feast on their fear, their flesh, their pie crusts! For I have prepared this festival just for you!” As the Great Gourd’s mouth opened wider, vines lashed out, dragging screaming villagers toward its maw. The Sprite skipped along the square, pointing and laughing, mocking the terrified as they tried to flee. “Not fast enough! Wrong shoes! Oh, darling, that scream is pitchy!” she heckled. She danced through the carnage like it was a harvest ball, giggling, bratty, ecstatic. For her, this was the perfect show: horror and comedy entwined, a macabre joke with the punchline being the end of everything. And yet—perhaps because brats never know when to stop—she pushed her luck. She hopped onto the Great Gourd’s vast forehead, planting herself like a crown. “Look at me!” she cried. “The Brat Supreme has ascended! I am no longer your Queen alone—I am your god!” The Great Gourd paused. Its glowing eyes rolled upward, staring at the tiny brat perched on its head. A long silence stretched, broken only by the whimpering of villagers and the squelching of vines. Finally, in a voice like grinding stone, it spoke: “Annoying.” And with that, it flicked its massive body, sending the Pumpkin Sprite flying across the square like a ragdoll. She crashed through three hay bales, knocked over Old Man Bracken’s goat, and landed upside down in a trough of cider. Spluttering, she popped her head out, eyes blazing. “HOW DARE YOU!” she screeched, waterlogged hat slipping down her face. “You dare dismiss me, your precious brat, after everything I’ve done for you? I painted rude faces on hay bales! I cursed doorknobs! I built you an army!” The Great Gourd yawned. “Still hungry.” Its vines reached for her, curling tight. For the first time, the Pumpkin Sprite’s bratty grin faltered. Just a crack, but enough for the villagers to see. She squealed, stomped her boot in the cider, and then, with all the audacity of a child caught stealing candy, shouted: “Fine! Feast on them, not me! I quit! I resign! This harvest is canceled on account of bad vibes!” And with that, she vanished in a puff of pumpkin-scented smoke, leaving the villagers, the scarecrows, and the Great Gourd to their fate. Where she went, no one knew. Some say she fled to another village, to torment fresh victims. Others claim she still lurks in the vines, waiting, pouting, planning her comeback. But one truth remains: every October, when the wind rattles through the pumpkins and the jack-o’-lanterns giggle too loudly, the villagers shiver. Because they know the brat is never gone for long. She always returns. She always laughs. She always demands the last word. And in the distance, faint but unmistakable, a voice echoes: “Bow, peasants!”     Bring The Pumpkin Sprite Home If the bratty charm of The Pumpkin Sprite has cackled her way into your imagination, you can summon her into your own space—no vine-curses required. Our exclusive artwork is available in a range of wickedly wonderful formats: Framed Print – A bold, bratty centerpiece for your wall, perfect for summoning October vibes year-round. Tapestry – Let her sprawl across your walls with the unapologetic flair of a pumpkin queen. Greeting Card – Send a mischievous smile (or a spooky warning) to friends and foes alike. Sticker – Portable brat energy, ready to slap onto laptops, journals, or broomsticks. Celebrate the brat, embrace the mischief, and let the Pumpkin Sprite haunt your home in the best way possible. 🎃

por Bill Tiepelman

Acorn Express Airways

Boarding & Questionable Safety Briefing Sprig Thistlewick, professional optimist and part-time mushroom taxidermist, had finally decided to launch his airline. Not a metaphorical airline. A literal one. His plan was simple: slap a hat on, grab a squirrel, and call it an enterprise. No paperwork, no infrastructure, just raw courage and a complete misunderstanding of physics. Now, to be fair, most gnomes lacked Sprig’s flair for disastrous entrepreneurship. The last time he tried to “modernize” gnome society, he had invented self-heating trousers. Unfortunately, they had worked too well, turning every family dinner into a small bonfire. The squirrels still referred to it as “the Winter of Screams.” And yet here he was, standing in the middle of a mossy runway—a fallen log painted with suspicious white stripes—preparing to launch his greatest venture yet: Acorn Express Airways, offering daily flights to “wherever the squirrel feels like going.” Helix, his squirrel pilot, had not signed a contract. In fact, Helix hadn’t even signed up. He was recruited at acorn-point (which is like gunpoint, but more adorable), bribed with promises of unlimited hazelnuts and a health insurance plan Sprig had scribbled on a leaf. The terms read: “If you die, you don’t have to pay premiums.” Helix considered this generous. The passengers—well, passenger—was also Sprig himself. “Every great airline begins with one brave traveler,” he announced, saluting the trees. “And also, technically, one brave mammal who doesn’t know what’s happening.” Mushrooms leaned out of the underbrush to watch. A pair of hedgehogs sold popcorn. Somewhere, a frog was taking bets. The entire forest knew this flight was a disaster waiting to happen, and they’d canceled their evening plans to spectate. Sprig climbed aboard Helix with all the dignity of a drunk librarian mounting a roller skate. His boots flopped, his beard snagged, his hat got caught on a twig and flung backward like a parachute that gave up halfway through deployment. “Preflight checklist!” he bellowed, gripping Helix’s fur like he was about to wrestle a particularly hairy pillow. “Tail: flamboyant. Whiskers: symmetrical. Nuts: accounted for.” Helix gave him a look. That look squirrels give when they’re not sure whether you’re about to feed them or ruin their entire bloodline. Sprig translated it generously as, “Permission granted.” With a solemn nod, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled-up fern leaf. He cleared his throat and recited the safety briefing he’d written at 3 a.m. while delirious on dandelion wine: “In the unlikely event of a water landing, please scream loudly and hope a duck feels charitable.” “Acorns may drop from overhead compartments. These are for eating, not flotation.” “Please keep your arms and dignity inside the ride at all times.” “If you are seated next to an emergency exit, congratulations, you are also the emergency exit.” Helix twitched his whiskers and launched. Straight up. No runway, no build-up, just boom—vertical takeoff like a caffeinated rocket. Sprig’s scream ricocheted through the branches, equal parts thrill and bowel-loosening terror. Below, the fox ground crew waved fern fronds in professional arcs, guiding their ascent with the exaggerated confidence of someone who had absolutely no idea what air traffic control was. A badger in a neon vest blew a whistle. No one asked why. Through the canopy they burst, slicing through golden beams of morning light. Birds scattered. Leaves tore free. One owl muttered, “Unbelievable,” and went back to sleep. Sprig’s hat flapped behind him like a flag of questionable sovereignty. “Altitude: dramatic!” he shouted. “Dignity: postponed!” The forest below stretched into a dizzying swirl of fantasy woodland art, whimsical forest scene, and enchanted nature waiting to be marketed on Etsy. They whipped past a hawk who gave them the side-eye usually reserved for people who clap when the plane lands. A pair of sparrows debated filing a noise complaint. Helix ignored them all, laser-focused on the thrill of speed and the occasional possibility of spontaneous combustion. Then Sprig saw it: hanging impossibly in midair was a floating brass door, polished to a glow, stamped with an ornate sign: Gate A-Corn. Suspended by nothing, radiating authority, humming with magic, the doorway shimmered with the promise of destinations unknown. Sprig pointed dramatically. “There! First stop on the Acorn Express! Aim true, Helix, and mind the turbulence of existential dread!” Helix tightened his grip on physics, ignored several laws of aerodynamics, and arrowed straight toward the door. The air around them trembled, and Sprig’s grin stretched into the kind of manic expression only found on cult leaders and people who’ve had six espressos on an empty stomach. The adventure had begun, and neither gravity, reason, nor common sense was invited along for the ride.   The Turbulence of Utter Nonsense The brass door grew larger, looming like a bureaucratic nightmare in the middle of open sky. Helix, panting with the ferocity of a squirrel who’d once bitten into a chili pepper by mistake, powered forward. Sprig tightened his grip, shouting into the wind like a prophet who’d just discovered caffeine. “Gate A-Corn, our destiny!” he cried. “Or possibly our obituary headline!” The door creaked open midair. Not swung, not slid—creaked, as though it had hinges in the clouds themselves. From within, light spilled: golden, shimmering, and suspiciously judgmental. A sign above flickered in runes that translated, unhelpfully, to: “Now Boarding Group All.” Sprig adjusted his hat, which had migrated halfway down his back, and yelled at Helix, “This is it! Remember your training!” Helix, who had received no training beyond the words “don’t die,” chirped in squirrel profanity and barreled through. They shot into a void of impossible architecture. Corridors twisted like licorice sticks designed by an angry mathematician. Floors melted into ceilings, which politely excused themselves and became walls. A tannoy voice announced, “Welcome to Acorn Express Airways. Please abandon logic in the overhead compartment.” Sprig saluted. “Already did!” They weren’t alone. Passengers—other gnomes, pixies, at least one surprisingly well-dressed frog—floated in midair, clutching boarding passes made of bark. A centipede in a waistcoat offered complimentary peanuts (which were actually acorns, but the branding department insisted on calling them peanuts). “Can I get you a beverage, sir?” the centipede asked in a customer-service tone that implied violence. Sprig grinned. “Do you have dandelion wine?” “We have water that has looked at wine.” “Close enough.” Helix landed with a clumsy skid on what appeared to be carpeting woven from moss and gossip. A flight attendant—a raven in a bowtie—flapped forward, glaring. “Sir, your mount must be placed in an overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you.” Sprig snorted. “Do you see a seat in front of me?” The raven checked. The seats were currently in rebellion, galloping off toward the emergency exit while singing sea shanties. “Point taken,” the raven said, and handed him a complimentary sick bag labeled ‘Soul Leakage Only’. The tannoy boomed again: “This is your captain speaking. Captain Probability. Our cruising altitude will be approximately yes, and our estimated arrival time is don’t ask. Please enjoy your flight, and remember: if you feel turbulence, it’s probably emotional.” And turbulence there was. The corridor-airplane hybrid jolted violently, tossing passengers like dice in a cosmic gambling hall. A pixie lost her hat, which immediately filed for divorce. A goblin’s lunch turned into a live chicken mid-bite. Helix dug his claws into the moss carpet while Sprig flailed with the elegance of a man fighting off bees at a funeral. “Brace positions!” the tannoy announced. “Or just improvise. Honestly, no one cares.” The turbulence escalated into full chaos. Luggage compartments began spewing secrets: a suitcase burst open, releasing 47 unpaid parking tickets and a raccoon with diplomatic immunity. Another compartment exploded in confetti and existential dread. Sprig clung to Helix, shouting over the din, “THIS IS EXACTLY WHAT I EXPECTED!” which, frankly, made it worse. The gnome’s laughter blended with screams, creating a symphony of woodland absurdity that might’ve impressed Wagner if Wagner had been drunk and concussed. Then came the in-flight entertainment. A giant screen unfolded from thin air, flickering on to reveal a propaganda film: “Why Flying Squirrel Airlines Are the Future.” The narrator’s voice boomed with ominous cheer: “Tired of walking? Of course you are! Introducing high-speed, fur-lined, moderately rabid travel. Our pilots are trained in climbing trees and ignoring consequences. Book now, and you’ll receive a free hat you didn’t want.” Helix stared at the screen, tail twitching furiously. Sprig patted his neck. “Don’t take it personally, lad. You’re the pioneer. The Wright Brother. The… Wright Brother’s pet squirrel.” Helix squeaked indignantly, clearly offended at being demoted to sidekick status in his own narrative. But before Sprig could placate him with a bribe of candied pinecones, the tannoy blared once more: “Attention passengers: we are now entering the Anomalous Weather Zone. Please ensure your limbs are securely attached, and for the love of moss, don’t make eye contact with the sky.” The plane shook like a blender filled with bad decisions. Out the windows (which appeared and disappeared depending on mood), the sky warped into colors usually reserved for lava lamps and regrettable tattoos. Raindrops fell upward. Thunder clapped in Morse code, spelling out rude words. A lightning bolt high-fived another lightning bolt, then turned to wink at Sprig. “Friendly lot,” he muttered, before being slapped across the face by a passing cumulonimbus. The gnome realized this was no ordinary turbulence. This was orchestrated chaos. He sniffed the air. Yes—mischief. Sabotage. Possibly sabotage fueled by mushrooms, but sabotage nonetheless. Somewhere in this nightmare-aircraft, someone wanted them grounded. Literally. Sprig stood, wobbling like a marionette drunk on vinegar. “Helix!” he shouted over the madness. “Plot a course to the cockpit! Someone’s playing games with our lives, and it’s not even us this time!” Helix squeaked in agreement, lunged forward, and tore down the twisting corridor-airplane hybrid like a streak of vengeful fur. Gnomes, frogs, pixies, and at least one confused insurance salesman scattered out of the way. The journey to the cockpit was perilous. They dodged a stampede of seats still singing sea shanties, leapt over a snack cart staffed by an angry beetle demanding exact change, and sprinted through a cabin section where gravity had simply quit its job and gone home. Sprig clung on with the grim determination of a man who knew that heroism and idiocy were separated only by who wrote the history books. His beard streamed behind him like an untrustworthy flag. His heart pounded. The tannoy whispered seductively, “Please don’t die. It’s tacky.” Finally, at the end of a corridor that looped back on itself three times before giving up, they saw it: the cockpit door. Polished brass. Massive. Glowing faintly with the promise of answers. Sprig jabbed a finger toward it. “There, Helix! Destiny! Or perhaps indigestion!” The squirrel squealed, launched himself into a final sprint, and leapt for the handle. And that’s when the door began to laugh.   Cockpit of Chaos & the Final Boarding Call The cockpit door did not just laugh. It guffawed, a deep, rattling belly-laugh that shook the very air around it, as though someone had installed an entire comedy club into its hinges. Sprig froze mid-leap, dangling from Helix’s back like an accessory no one ordered. “Doors don’t laugh,” he muttered. “That’s page one of ‘How to Identify Things That Are Doors.’” Helix squeaked nervously, his tail puffing up like a feather duster in a thunderstorm. The brass rippled, and the handle twisted into a sneering smile. “You’ve come this far,” the door said, voice dripping with smugness. “But no gnome, squirrel, or tragically overdressed woodland creature has ever passed through me. I am the Cockpit Door, Guardian of Captain Probability, Keeper of the Flight Manifest, Judge of Carry-On Liquids!” Sprig puffed up his chest. “Listen here, you smug slab of hinges, I’ve faced trousers that spontaneously combusted and survived the aftertaste of mushroom brandy. I am not afraid of a talking door.” Helix, meanwhile, was quietly gnawing on the corner of the carpeting in stress. The door chuckled again. “To enter, you must answer my riddles three!” Sprig groaned. “Of course. Always three. Never two, never four, always three. Fine. Give me your worst, you squeaky furniture.” Riddle One: “What flies without wings, roars without a throat, and terrifies squirrels at picnics?” Sprig squinted. “That’s easy. Wind. Or my Aunt Maple after three cups of pine needle tea. But mostly wind.” The door shuddered. “Correct. Though your Aunt Maple is terrifying.” Riddle Two: “What is heavier than guilt, faster than gossip, and more unpredictable than your tax returns?” “Obviously time,” Sprig replied. “Or possibly Helix after eating fermented berries. But I’ll stick with time.” The door rattled angrily. “Correct again. But your tax returns remain suspicious.” Riddle Three: “What is both destination and journey, filled with laughter and terror, and only possible when logic takes a day off?” Sprig grinned, his eyes sparkling with manic triumph. “Flight. Specifically, Acorn Express Airways.” The door howled, cracked, and finally swung open with theatrical reluctance. “Ugh. Fine. Go on then. But don’t say I didn’t warn you when the captain gets weird.”     Inside, the cockpit defied comprehension. Buttons grew like mushrooms across every surface. Levers hung from the ceiling, dripping with condensation. The control panel was clearly designed by someone who had once seen an accordion and thought, “Yes, but angrier.” At the center sat Captain Probability, a massive owl wearing aviator goggles and a captain’s hat two sizes too small. His feathers gleamed like spilled ink. His eyes were orbs of mathematics gone rogue. “Ah,” Captain Probability hooted, voice a strange mix of dignified scholar and used-car salesman. “Welcome to my office. You’ve braved turbulence, riddles, and seating arrangements that defy Geneva Conventions. But why are you here? To fly? To question? To snack?” Sprig cleared his throat. “We’re here because the weather tried to eat us, the tannoy keeps flirting with me, and my squirrel has developed PTSD from peanuts.” Helix squeaked agreement, twitching his whiskers like an overstimulated antenna. “We demand answers!” Captain Probability leaned forward, his beak clicking ominously. “The truth is this: Acorn Express Airways is no mere airline. It is a crucible, a test of those who dare to reject the tyranny of logic. Each passenger is chosen, plucked from their quiet woodland lives, and hurled into chaos to see if they will laugh, cry, or order overpriced snacks.” “So it’s a cult,” Sprig said flatly. “Great. Knew it.” “Not a cult,” the owl corrected. “An adventure subscription service. Auto-renews every full moon. No refunds.” The cockpit lurched violently. Outside, the Anomalous Weather Zone roared with renewed fury. Clouds twisted into monstrous faces. Lightning spelled out, “HA HA NO.” The tannoy blared: “Brace yourselves! Or don’t. Honestly, mortality rates are included in the brochure.” Sprig gritted his teeth. “Helix, we’re taking over this flight.” The squirrel squealed, appalled but loyal, and scampered toward the controls. Captain Probability flared his wings. “You dare?” he bellowed. “Do you think you can outfly chaos itself?” “No,” Sprig said, grinning wildly. “But I can ride a squirrel into absolute nonsense, and that’s practically the same thing.”     Chaos erupted. Helix leapt onto the console, paws slamming random buttons with all the subtlety of a drunk orchestra conductor. Sirens wailed. Panels lit up with messages like ‘You Shouldn’t Press That’ and ‘Congratulations, You’ve Opened the Wormhole’. The floor tilted violently, sending Sprig skidding toward a lever labeled “Do Not Pull Unless You’re Feeling Spicy.” Naturally, he pulled it. The plane screamed, reality hiccupped, and suddenly they were no longer in sky or storm—they were in a tunnel of pure absurdity. Colors exploded. Acorns rained sideways. A choir of chipmunks sang “O Fortuna” while juggling flaming pinecones. Captain Probability flailed, hooting in outrage. “You’ll destroy everything!” Sprig whooped with joy, clinging to Helix as the squirrel steered them through collapsing geometry. “DESTROY? NO, MY FEATHERED FRIEND! THIS IS INNOVATION!” He slammed another button. The tannoy moaned sensually. The moss carpeting grew legs and began tap-dancing. Somewhere, a vending machine achieved enlightenment. At the end of the tunnel, a blinding light awaited. Not gentle, hopeful light. Blinding, obnoxious, migraine-inducing light, the kind that suggests a divine being really needs to adjust their dimmer switch. Sprig pointed. “That’s our exit, Helix! Take us home!” Helix gathered every ounce of rodent strength, tail blazing like a comet, and hurled them forward. Captain Probability lunged after them, screeching, “No passenger escapes probability!” But Sprig turned, hat askew, beard wild, and shouted back the most heroic nonsense ever uttered by a gnome: “MAYBE IS FOR COWARDS!”     They burst through the light— —and crash-landed on the forest floor with all the grace of a piano falling down stairs. Birds scattered. Trees groaned. A mushroom fainted dramatically. Sprig staggered to his feet, brushing moss from his beard, while Helix flopped onto his back, chest heaving. Silence reigned for a long moment. Then Sprig grinned, wide and maniacal. “Well, Helix, we’ve done it. We’ve survived the maiden voyage of Acorn Express Airways. I declare it a success!” He raised a triumphant fist, only to immediately collapse on his face. Helix chattered weakly, rolling his eyes. Behind them, the sky shimmered. The brass door flickered, laughed once more, and disappeared into nothing. The forest returned to normal—or at least as normal as a forest gets when one gnome and one squirrel have committed interdimensional hijinks. Sprig groaned, pushed himself upright, and looked at Helix. “Same time tomorrow?” The squirrel slapped him in the face with his tail. And thus ended the first and very possibly last official flight of Acorn Express Airways, an airline that operated for exactly forty-seven minutes, carried exactly one idiot and one reluctant squirrel, and somehow managed to change the fate of woodland absurdity forever.     Bring the Adventure Home If Sprig and Helix’s madcap maiden voyage made you laugh, gasp, or quietly worry about the state of gnome aviation safety, you can keep the magic alive with beautiful products featuring Acorn Express Airways. Perfect for adding whimsy to your space, gifting to a fellow daydreamer, or carrying a little absurd humor into everyday life. Framed Print — Elevate your walls with a polished, ready-to-hang piece that captures the soaring absurdity of Sprig and Helix’s adventure. Canvas Print — Bring texture and depth to your home with this gallery-style print, the perfect centerpiece for a whimsical space. Jigsaw Puzzle — Relive the chaos piece by piece, whether as a solo challenge or with friends who also enjoy gnomish nonsense. Greeting Card — Share a laugh and a touch of woodland magic with someone who could use a smile (or a squirrel-powered airline ticket). Weekender Tote Bag — Whether you’re packing for adventure or just grocery day, this bag lets you carry the absurd whimsy of the Acorn Express with you. Each product is crafted with care and high-quality printing, ensuring that the spirit of Acorn Express Airways shines bright—whether on your wall, your table, or over your shoulder. Because some journeys deserve to be remembered… even the ones powered by squirrels.

por Bill Tiepelman

Hammer of the High Skies

There are rules for gnomes. You don’t speak loudly in public unless you’re selling onions. You don’t drink before noon unless it’s mead (in which case it doesn’t count). And above all else, you don’t—under any circumstances—go around taming dragons. Dragons are for elves with cheekbones sharp enough to slice bread, or for dwarves who can drink molten iron and still belch politely afterward. Gnomes? Gnomes are supposed to tend gardens, paint doorframes cheerful colors, and keep their heads down when giants argue about who owns which mountain. Roderick Bramblehelm had never kept his head down in his life. At forty-three, he had the beard of a prophet, the patience of a mosquito, and the temper of a blacksmith whose anvil had just insulted his mother. He also had a hammer—a proper hammer, not one of those dainty mallets you use to hang shelves. This was forged steel with a handle of oak charred in dragonfire, the kind of hammer that made grown men step out of the way and priests start revising their wills. Roderick didn’t build with it. He didn’t fix with it. He raised it high as a promise to the world: if destiny won’t come knocking, I’ll bash the bloody door down myself. That philosophy is what led him into the Blacktooth Caverns on a storm-sick evening when most gnomes were at home, quietly admiring cabbages. The cavern was rumored to house something ancient and terrible. Villagers swore that every third Tuesday the mountains shuddered from within, as though the stones themselves had indigestion. Chickens went missing. Smoke rose where no fire had been lit. No one dared go inside—no one except Roderick, who had grown tired of hearing the elders whisper, “That one’s trouble,” whenever he entered the tavern. Trouble? He’d show them trouble. He’d show them wings slicing through thunder, jaws dripping with lightning, the kind of spectacle that made people drop tankards and soil breeches simultaneously. He found the beast curled among bones and broken wagons, snoring with the guttural rumble of earthquakes making love. The dragon was smaller than the legends promised, though “smaller” in this case meant only slightly less enormous than a cathedral. Its scales shimmered like wet stone, its horns were twisted corkscrews of ivory, and its teeth gleamed with the confidence of someone who had eaten several knights and found them bland. But the strangest thing of all was its grin—wide, feral, and utterly inappropriate for a creature that could end civilizations. The dragon’s name was Pickles. Roderick didn’t ask why; he suspected the answer would make his brain sprout mushrooms. “Oi, you scaly thunderchicken!” Roderick shouted, raising his hammer until it scraped the cavern roof. “Wake up, your nap’s over. The sky won’t conquer itself.” Pickles opened one saucer-sized eye, blinked once, and then let out a laugh so unholy that several bats dropped dead on the spot. It wasn’t a growl. It wasn’t a roar. It was the sound of madness having a tea party with chaos, and it rattled Roderick’s bones in the most satisfying way. “Finally,” the dragon croaked, its voice thick as burning tar. “A gnome with ambition. Do you know how long I’ve waited for one of you garden-tinkerers to grow a spine?” From that moment, their fates welded together like iron in a forge. Roderick climbed onto the beast’s back as if mounting a stubborn mule, and Pickles—after a ceremonial belch that scorched several stalactites—unfurled wings vast enough to slap the storm outside into submission. Together, they launched into the sky, shredding the night with fire and fury. The villagers of Cinderwhip, still sipping their weak ale and gossiping about the mayor’s suspicious mole, nearly dropped dead when they saw it: a gnome, of all things, astride a dragon the size of their bakery, laughing like a lunatic while waving a hammer that seemed far too big for his tiny arms. Their screams were immediate. Mothers dragged children indoors. Farmers dropped pitchforks. A priest fainted into his own soup. Yet there was no denying the magnificence of the spectacle. Pickles twisted through thunderheads, his wings scattering lightning like spilled jewels, while Roderick howled insults at the very clouds. “Is that all you’ve got?” he shouted into the storm, voice echoing across valleys. “I’ve seen scarier drizzle from a drunk donkey!” He slammed his hammer against his belt for emphasis, each clang like a war drum beating out the end of the old order. No one watching that night would forget it, no matter how hard they prayed. By dawn, the legend of Roderick Bramblehelm and Pickles the Dragon had been born. And legends, as everyone knows, are dangerous things. They don’t just change how others see you. They change what you are, and what you will have to face next. For the skies are never given freely—they are only won, and always at a price. The first night of flight was not graceful. Roderick Bramblehelm clung to Pickles’ scaly back like a barnacle strapped to a cannonball, his hammer raised high mostly because letting go meant falling to a very poetic death. The dragon’s wings pummeled the air with a sound like thunder being beaten into submission, and every dive threatened to eject the gnome into the clouds. But Roderick wasn’t afraid—not exactly. Fear, he’d decided long ago, was just excitement with poor posture. Besides, the view was intoxicating: lightning dancing through clouds, mountains carved in silver by the moon, and entire villages below, blissfully unaware that their future nightmares now came with a beard and a war hammer. Pickles was enjoying himself far too much. “Left, right, barrel roll!” he cackled, throwing his weight into aerial acrobatics that made falcons puke midflight. Roderick’s stomach lurched somewhere behind him, probably in a field. Yet he grinned, teeth bared against the wind, shouting back, “Is this all you’ve got, you overgrown newt? My aunt’s washing line gave me a rougher ride than this!” The insult delighted Pickles. He let out a wheezing, guttural laugh that sent sparks fizzing from his nostrils and set a cloud partially aflame. The cloud did not appreciate this and drifted off sulking, its edges smoldering like a badly rolled cigar. Their aerial chaos could not go unnoticed. By the second dawn, the news of a gnome atop a dragon spread faster than gossip about who’d been caught snogging behind the millhouse. Bards exaggerated, priests panicked, and kings muttered to their advisors, “Surely this is a joke, yes? A gnome? On a dragon?” Entire councils debated whether to laugh, declare war, or drink heavily until the memory passed. But memory does not pass when a dragon and rider scorch their names across the sky. And scorch they did. Their first target, entirely by accident, was a bandit camp nestled in the crook of the River Grell. Roderick had spotted their fire and, assuming it was a tavern, demanded a closer look. Pickles, never one to resist mischief, dove like a plummeting anvil. What followed was less a battle and more an extremely one-sided barbecue. Tents went up like parchment. Bandits screamed, scattering like cockroaches under divine judgment, while Roderick bellowed, “That’ll teach you to overcharge for ale!” He swung his hammer, obliterating a crate of stolen coins, sending silver raining into the dirt like divine confetti. The survivors later swore they had been attacked by the god of drunk lunatics and his pet apocalypse. From there, things escalated. Villages trembled when shadows darkened their skies. Noblemen soiled velvet trousers when Pickles swooped overhead, his grin a banner of impending chaos. Roderick found the whole affair intoxicating. He began inventing speeches to accompany their raids—grand, booming declarations that nobody could actually hear over the roaring wind but which made him feel dramatically important. “Citizens below!” he would shout into the gale, hammer aloft, “Your boring days are at an end! Behold your liberation in flame and glory!” To which Pickles would usually reply with a fart that set passing crows ablaze. Truly, they were poetry incarnate. But legends do not grow without enemies. Soon, the High Council of Stormwright Keep convened in their granite fortress. These were not sentimental people—they were the kind who measured morality in taxes and peace in tidy borders. A gnome with a dragon, unpredictable and ungovernable, was the sort of thing that sent their bowels into parliamentary panic. “This cannot stand,” decreed Archlord Velthram, a man whose face had all the warmth of a salted cod. “Summon the Knights of the Skyward Order. If a gnome believes he can own the clouds, then we shall remind him they are already under lease.” His advisors nodded gravely, though one or two scribbled furiously about whether they should trademark the phrase ‘lease of the skies’ for propaganda posters. Meanwhile, Roderick was utterly unaware that his name had become both battle cry and curse. He was too busy learning the mechanics of dragon flight. “Lean with me, you winged lunatic!” he barked during a sharp dive. “If I’m going to conquer the skies, I’ll not do it looking like a sack of potatoes flopping on your back.” Pickles snorted, amused, and adjusted his trajectory. Slowly, painfully, something resembling teamwork began to emerge from the chaos. Within a fortnight, they could slice through valleys like arrows, loop around storm spires with balletic grace, and terrify migrating geese for sport. Roderick even managed to stay in his saddle without swearing every third word. Progress. Their bond deepened not just through combat but through conversation. Around campfires of stolen logs, Roderick would drink bitter ale while Pickles roasted wild boars whole. “You know,” Roderick mused one night, “they’ll all come for us eventually. Kings, priests, heroes. They can’t stand the thought of a gnome rewriting their stories.” Pickles licked pork grease from his fangs and grinned. “Good. Let them come. I’ve been bored for centuries. Nothing tastes better than righteous indignation served on a silver spear.” And so the legend of Hammer and Dragon grew teeth. Songs carried their deeds across taverns. Children carved crude figures of a gnome with a hammer, standing triumphant atop a smiling beast. Merchants began selling counterfeit ‘dragon-scale charms’ and ‘authentic Bramblehelm beards’ at markets. For every cheer, though, there came a curse. Armies began to march. War horns blew across the realm. In storm clouds above, the first shadows of rival riders began to stir, knights with spears tipped in lightning, sworn to drag Roderick Bramblehelm screaming from the skies. But Roderick only laughed. He welcomed the challenge, hammer flashing in firelight. “Let them come,” he told Pickles, his eyes burning brighter than any dawn. “The skies were never meant for cowards. They were meant for us.” The first war horns sounded at dawn. Not the kind of dawn filled with rosy optimism and cheerful roosters, but the kind of dawn where the sun itself looked nervous about showing up. Across the valleys, banners unfurled—banners of lords, mercenaries, zealots, and anyone who thought killing a gnome on a dragon might look good on a résumé. The skies filled with armored gryphons, hawks so massive they could carry a cow in one talon, and the dreaded Knights of the Skyward Order: riders clad in polished steel, their spears tipped with bottled lightning. Their formation cut across the heavens like a razor. This was not a raid. This was an extermination. Pickles hovered at the edge of a storm, wings half-furled, grinning like a lunatic as always. His laughter boomed, rolling over the land like artillery. “Finally!” he crowed, sparks bursting from his teeth. “A proper audience!” His tail lashed through clouds, thunder growling like a hungry wolf. On his back, Roderick Bramblehelm tightened the straps of his saddle, the hammer across his shoulders heavy with promise. His beard whipped in the wind, his eyes gleamed with manic determination, and his grin matched his dragon’s. “That’s quite the reception,” he muttered. “I almost feel important.” “Almost?” Pickles snorted, then belched out a plume of fire so wide it startled a flock of starlings into immediate retirement. “You’re the most dangerous joke they’ve ever faced, hammer-boy. And jokes, when sharp enough, cut deeper than swords.” The enemy approached in waves. Trumpets shrieked. War drums thundered. Priests hurled curses into the gale, summoning holy fire and divine chains. But Roderick rose in his saddle, raised his hammer high, and bellowed a single word into the storm: “COME!” It wasn’t a plea. It was a command, and even the clouds flinched. The battle exploded like chaos uncaged. Gryphon riders dove, their beasts screaming, claws flashing in the stormlight. Pickles rolled, twisted, snapped one from the sky in his jaws, and spat the armored corpse into a village well three miles below. Roderick swung his hammer with glee, caving helmets, shattering shields, and occasionally smacking an unfortunate gryphon in the backside so hard it changed religions midflight. “Is that all?” he roared, laughter tearing from his throat. “My grandmother wrestled angrier chickens!” The Knights of the Skyward Order were no ordinary soldiers. They flew in flawless formations, their lightning-spears humming with captured storms. One spear struck Pickles square across the chest, sending sparks arcing over his scales. The dragon snarled, more annoyed than hurt, and let out a roar that cracked stone bridges below. Roderick nearly lost his grip, but instead of fear, his heart flooded with exhilaration. This was it—the storm he was born for. “Pickles!” he yelled, hammer aloft, “Let’s show these tin-plated pigeons how a gnome rewrites the sky!” What followed was not a battle. It was an opera of annihilation. Pickles spun through clouds, wings slicing wind into deadly vortices. His laugh—half shriek, half thunder—rolled over the field like doom itself. Roderick moved with lunatic precision, his hammer striking like punctuation in a poem written in blood and fire. He shattered the spear of one knight, dragged the rider from his saddle, and hurled him screaming into a thunderhead. Another knight lunged, only to find himself clotheslined by a gnome’s steel hammer in midair, which by all accounts should have been physically impossible. But legends care little for physics. Below, villagers stared upward, their lives frozen mid-task. Some prayed, some wept, some cheered. Children laughed at the absurdity of it—a tiny gnome slaying sky-knights while a dragon with a grin wider than the horizon shrieked in joy. Farmers swore they saw the gnome raise his hammer and strike lightning itself, splitting it into fragments that rained like molten silver. Entire churches would later form around the event, declaring Roderick Bramblehelm a prophet of chaos. Not that he’d ever attend a service. He thought sermons were dull unless someone caught fire halfway through. But legends always demand a price. The Archlord himself entered the fray atop a beast bred from nightmares—an obsidian wyvern, armored in spiked steel, eyes like black suns. Velthram was no fool. He carried no ordinary spear but the Spear of Dawnsbane, forged in storms older than empires, designed for a single purpose: killing dragons. His arrival hushed the battle for a breathless instant. Even Pickles’ grin faltered. “Ah,” the dragon hissed. “Finally, someone worth burping on.” The clash was cataclysmic. The wyvern slammed into Pickles midflight, talons tearing scales, tail smashing like a spiked whip. Roderick nearly flew from the saddle, clinging by one strap as the world spun into fire and shrieking metal. Velthram thrust the Dawnsbane, the spear’s lightning kissing Pickles’ ribs, carving a searing wound. The dragon roared in pain, fire exploding from his lungs, engulfing three unfortunate knights who had wandered too close. Roderick, dangling by one arm, swung his hammer with all the fury in his tiny body, smashing against Velthram’s armored face. The Archlord snarled, blood spraying, but did not fall. The battle raged across miles of sky. Villages below quaked as dragon and wyvern crashed through storm fronts, their roars louder than earthquakes. Roderick screamed insults with each swing—“Your wyvern smells like boiled cabbage!”—while Velthram countered with the cold silence of a man who hadn’t laughed since birth. Sparks rained, wings clashed, the very clouds tore apart beneath their fury. Finally, in a moment carved from madness, Roderick stood on Pickles’ neck, hammer raised, as the wyvern lunged in for the kill. Time slowed. The world held its breath. With a howl that shook heaven itself, Roderick leapt. He soared through the air—gnome beard streaming, hammer ablaze with stormlight—and brought it down upon Velthram’s spear. The impact cracked the Dawnsbane in two, thunder exploding outward in a wave that sent gryphons spiraling, shattered church bells across the realm, and split the storm into shreds of brilliant fire. Velthram, stunned, toppled from his saddle, his wyvern shrieking in panic as it dove to catch him. The sky was theirs. Pickles bellowed triumph, a laugh so wild it made the storm itself shudder into retreat. Roderick landed hard on his dragon’s back, barely clinging, lungs burning, body battered, but alive. Alive, and victorious. His hammer, cracked but unbroken, pulsed in his hands like a heartbeat. “That,” he rasped, spitting blood into the wind, “is how a gnome writes history.” The armies broke. The knights fled. The Council’s banners burned. Songs would be sung for centuries about the day a gnome and his dragon claimed the heavens. Some would call it madness. Others would call it legend. But for those who saw it with their own eyes, it was something greater: proof that the skies belonged not to kings, nor gods, nor armies, but to those mad enough to seize them. And so Roderick Bramblehelm and Pickles the Dragon carved their names into eternity, not as tyrants or saviors, but as chaos given wings. The hammer had fallen, the skies had been conquered, and the world—forever after—looked up in both terror and awe, waiting for the next roar of laughter to roll across the clouds.     Bring the Legend Home The tale of Roderick Bramblehelm and Pickles the Dragon doesn’t have to stay in the clouds. You can capture their chaos, triumph, and laughter in your own space. Hang their storm-scorched glory on your wall with a framed print or let the legend breathe boldly across a canvas that commands the room. Carry their madness wherever you go with a spiral notebook for your own daring plans, or slap their fearless grin onto your favorite surface with a battle-ready sticker. The skies may belong to legends, but the art can belong to you.

por Bill Tiepelman

Tooth & Twinkle

The Recruitment of Reginald Reginald the Gnome had always considered himself something of a specialist in doing as little as possible with as much flair as possible. While other gnomes were busy tending gardens, crafting fine tools, or running suspiciously profitable mushroom ale distilleries, Reginald preferred reclining beneath a toadstool, puffing on a pipe filled with herbs of questionable legality, and sighing dramatically whenever anyone asked him for help. His philosophy was simple: the world had more than enough heroes and martyrs, but a true master of loafing was a rare and valuable treasure. At least, that’s what he told himself as he dodged responsibility with the skill of an Olympic-level tax evader. So when a crooked-nosed wizard named Bartholomew appeared in his front yard one gray morning, waving a staff and muttering about “destiny” and “chosen companions,” Reginald naturally assumed he was being scammed. “Listen,” Reginald had said, clutching his tea with both hands, “if this is about signing me up for some ‘hero’s guild,’ forget it. I don’t do quests. I don’t fetch, I don’t fight, and I certainly don’t wear tights.” Bartholomew had only grinned in that unnerving way people do when they know something you don’t — or worse, when they think they’re funny. Before Reginald could protest further, the wizard had clapped his hands, shouted something about contracts, and introduced him to a creature that would change his life in ways he was not remotely ready for. Enter Twinkle: a baby dragon with eyes the size of soup bowls, wings like oversized laundry sheets, and the perpetually gleeful smile of a drunk bard who has just discovered free ale night. Twinkle’s scales shimmered faintly under the sun — not glittering like diamonds, but with the humble shine of a well-oiled frying pan. He was, in short, both ridiculous and terrifying. Reginald, on first sight, had uttered the words: “Absolutely not.” “Absolutely yes,” Bartholomew countered, already strapping a rope harness around the dragon’s chest. “You’ll fly together, bond together, and save something or other. Don’t worry about the details. Quests always sort themselves out in the middle. That’s the magic of narrative structure.” Now, Reginald was no scholar, but he knew when he was being railroaded into a plotline. And yet, despite all his protests, he found himself — ten minutes later — airborne, screaming into the wind as Twinkle flapped with all the grace of a goat learning ballet. The ground dropped away, and the landscape unfurled like a painted scroll beneath them: forests, rivers, hills, and, somewhere in the distance, the faint twinkle (no relation) of civilization. Reginald’s stomach, however, refused to be impressed. It preferred to lurch violently, reminding him that gnomes were creatures of burrows and soil, not open skies and feather-brained wizards. “If I fall to my death, I swear I will come back as a poltergeist and knock over all your soup pots,” Reginald bellowed, his voice whipped away by the wind. Twinkle turned his head slightly, flashing that infuriating, wide-mouthed grin that revealed rows of tiny, pearly teeth. There was no malice in it — only joy. Pure, unfiltered, puppy-like joy. And that, Reginald decided, was the most unsettling thing of all. “Stop smiling at me like that,” he hissed. “You’re not supposed to enjoy being the harbinger of doom!” The dragon’s wings dipped, then rose sharply, sending Reginald bouncing in the harness like a sack of turnips strapped to a catapult. He cursed in three languages (four, if you count the dialect of muttered gnomish reserved specifically for complaining). His hat nearly flew off, his beard whipped about like tangled yarn, and his grip on the rope tightened until his knuckles resembled pearl buttons. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he had forgotten to lock his cottage door. “Brilliant,” he muttered. “I’ll come home to find raccoons playing cards in my kitchen. And if they’re anything like last time, they’ll cheat.” But for all his bellyaching, Reginald couldn’t entirely ignore the thrill crawling along his spine. The world below, usually so stubbornly out of reach, now lay like a map spread at his feet. The clouds parted, the sun caught Twinkle’s wings, and for one brief, treacherous moment, he felt something disturbingly close to… wonder. Of course, he smothered the feeling immediately. “Wonder is for poets and lunatics,” he said aloud, mostly to reassure himself. “I am neither. I am a sensible gnome in a highly insensible situation.” Twinkle, naturally, ignored him. The dragon flapped harder, dove with terrifying speed, then swooped upward in a maneuver that would have impressed any respectable knight but only made Reginald wheeze like an accordion dropped down a staircase. “By the beard of my ancestors,” he gasped, “if you break my spine, I will haunt you so relentlessly you’ll never nap again.” Twinkle chirped — yes, chirped — as though to say, deal. And so, the unlikely duo carried on: one gnome with the permanent expression of a man regretting all his life choices, and one dragon with the demeanor of an overeager puppy who had just discovered the concept of air travel. Together, they cut across the sky — not gracefully, not even competently, but loudly and with far too much enthusiasm from one side of the partnership. Reginald clung to the harness, muttering darkly, “This is how legends start: with someone else’s bad idea and my unpaid labor. Typical.” The Perils of Mid-Air Hospitality Reginald had always believed that traveling should involve two essential comforts: steady ground beneath one’s feet and a flask of something strong enough to burn regrets out of the bloodstream. Unfortunately, flying on the back of Twinkle offered neither. His backside was already numb, the rope harness dug into his ribs like a debt collector, and the flask he’d hidden in his pocket had sprung a leak sometime between the second nosedive and the third death spiral. The scent of elderberry brandy now drifted in the air behind them, forming a fragrant trail that would have made bees and bandits alike giddy. “Lovely,” he muttered, wringing out his sleeve. “Nothing says ‘professional adventurer’ like reeking of spilt liquor before the first crisis.” Twinkle, naturally, was having the time of his life. He banked, spun, and chirped in that oddly musical way, as though he were hosting an aerial cabaret. Reginald clutched the ropes tighter, his teeth rattling so hard they could’ve been used as castanets. “I know you think this is fun,” he grumbled into the wind, “but some of us are not equipped for spontaneous air acrobatics. Some of us have delicate spines, weak constitutions, and, might I remind you, absolutely no wings.” The dragon ignored him, of course, but Reginald wasn’t entirely alone. As they soared past a flock of geese, one particularly bold bird flew alarmingly close to Reginald’s face. He swatted at it half-heartedly. “Shoo! I don’t have time for avian harassment. I’m already being chauffeured by a reptilian maniac.” The goose honked indignantly, as if to say, your fashion sense offends us all, short one, before veering back to its flock. “Yes, well, take it up with the wizard,” Reginald snapped. “He’s the one who dressed me like a potato sack escaped from the laundry line.” As if things weren’t humiliating enough, Twinkle suddenly let out a sound suspiciously like a growling stomach. Reginald froze. “No,” he said firmly. “Absolutely not. We are not mid-flight snacking, not unless you’ve brought your own sandwiches.” Twinkle burbled happily and banked toward a small plateau sticking out of the forest below, wings flaring in what Reginald instantly recognized as the international signal for picnic landing. The dragon swooped down, wobbling slightly on his descent, and touched down with all the grace of a sack of flour being dropped from a barn roof. Reginald’s bones clattered, his beard went sideways, and when the dust settled, he slid off the dragon’s back like an exhausted potato peel. “Congratulations,” he wheezed. “You’ve invented the world’s least comfortable carriage ride.” Twinkle, meanwhile, sat happily on his haunches, panting like a dog and staring expectantly at Reginald. The gnome raised one bushy eyebrow. “What? You think I packed snacks? Do I look like your personal caterer? I barely remember to feed myself, and half the time that involves moldy bread and regret soup.” Twinkle tilted his enormous head, blinked twice, and let out the faintest, most pitiful whine imaginable. “Oh no,” Reginald groaned, covering his ears. “Don’t you dare weaponize cuteness against me. I have survived decades of guilt-tripping aunties and manipulative raccoons. I am immune.” He was not immune. Ten minutes later, Reginald was rooting around in his satchel, producing the sad remnants of his travel supplies: two crumbling biscuits, half a wheel of suspiciously sweaty cheese, and what might once have been an apple before time and neglect transformed it into a small weapon. Twinkle eyed the pile with such radiant joy you’d have thought Reginald had conjured a feast of roasted boar and honeycakes. “Don’t get too excited,” Reginald warned, snapping the apple in half and tossing it at him. “This is barely enough to feed a hungry hamster. You, meanwhile, are the size of a hay wagon.” Twinkle swallowed the apple whole, then burped, sending out a puff of smoke that singed the tips of Reginald’s beard. “Marvelous,” the gnome grumbled, patting out the sparks. “A flying furnace with indigestion. Just what I needed.” They sat in uneasy companionship on the plateau for a while. Twinkle gnawed happily on the stale cheese, while Reginald stretched his aching legs and muttered about how retirement had been within reach just yesterday. “I could be in my burrow right now, sipping tea, playing cards with badgers, and listening to the rain,” he complained to no one in particular. “Instead, I’m babysitting a dragon with the digestive habits of a goat.” Twinkle, finished with the cheese, scooted closer and nudged him with his snout, nearly knocking him into the dirt. “Yes, yes, I like you too,” Reginald said reluctantly, rubbing the dragon’s nose. “But if you keep looking at me like I’m your replacement mother, I’m buying you a nanny goat and calling it a day.” Before he could say more, the sky above them shifted. A shadow swept across the plateau, long and ominous. Reginald froze, squinting up. It wasn’t a cloud. It wasn’t a bird. It was something far larger, something with wings so vast they seemed stitched from night itself. Twinkle froze, too, his goofy grin vanishing, replaced by a wary flick of his tail. “Oh, splendid,” Reginald muttered, standing slowly. “Because what this day was missing was a larger, scarier dragon with a possible appetite for gnomes.” The shadow circled once, twice, and then descended in a slow, predatory spiral. Reginald felt the hairs on his neck bristle. He gripped the harness rope still dangling from Twinkle’s chest and whispered, “If this ends with me being swallowed whole, I just want it noted that I was right all along. Adventure is a racket.” Twinkle crouched, wings twitching, eyes wide, caught somewhere between terror and excitement — the look of a child about to meet a relative who may or may not bring candy. Reginald patted his scaly companion nervously. “Steady now, lad. Try not to look edible.” The massive figure landed with a ground-shaking thud just ten yards away. Dust billowed, pebbles rattled, and Reginald’s heart sank. Before him stood a dragon four times Twinkle’s size, scales black as obsidian, eyes glowing like molten gold. Its wings folded neatly with the calm precision of someone who knew they were in charge of every living thing within five miles. The elder dragon lowered its head, nostrils flaring as it sniffed Reginald first, then Twinkle. Finally, with a voice that rumbled like distant thunder, it spoke: “What… is this?” Reginald swallowed hard. “Oh, wonderful. It talks. Because it wasn’t intimidating enough already.” He straightened his hat, cleared his throat, and replied with all the bravado he could fake: “This is, uh… an apprenticeship program?” The Audition for Disaster The elder dragon’s molten eyes narrowed, flicking from Reginald to Twinkle and back again, as though trying to decide which looked more ridiculous. “An apprenticeship program,” it repeated, every syllable rumbling deep enough to rearrange Reginald’s organs. “This… is what the world has come to?” Reginald, being a gnome of resourceful cowardice, nodded vigorously. “Yes. That’s exactly it. Training the next generation. All very official. You know how it is — forms to fill, waivers to sign, nobody wants liability these days.” He gave a little laugh that sounded more like a cough, then glanced sideways at Twinkle, who wagged his tail like an overexcited puppy. “See? Enthusiastic recruit. Very promising. Could probably roast marshmallows with minimal collateral damage.” The elder dragon leaned in closer, nostrils flaring. The blast of hot breath nearly flattened Reginald’s beard. “This hatchling is weak,” it growled. “Its flame is untested. Its wings are clumsy. Its heart…” The golden eyes locked on Twinkle, who, instead of cowering, belched out a puff of smoke that came with a faint squeak — like a kettle left too long on the stove. The elder dragon blinked. “Its heart is absurd.” Reginald threw his arms wide. “Absurd, yes! But in an endearing way. Everyone loves absurd these days. It sells. Absurdity is the new black, haven’t you heard?” He was stalling, of course, desperately trying to keep from being fried, stomped, or eaten. “Give him a chance. He just needs… polish. Like an uncut gem. Or an un-housebroken goat. You know, potential.” The elder dragon tilted its massive head, clearly amused by the spectacle. “Very well. The hatchling may prove itself. But if it fails…” The golden eyes fixed on Reginald, glowing hotter. “…you will take its place.” “Take its place where?” Reginald asked nervously. “I should warn you, I’m not very good at laying eggs.” The elder dragon did not laugh. Dragons, it seemed, had a limited appreciation for gnomish humor. “There is a trial,” it rumbled. “The hatchling will demonstrate courage in the face of peril.” Its massive wings unfurled, blotting out the sun, before beating downward in a gale that nearly knocked Reginald on his backside. “Follow.” “Oh, splendid,” Reginald muttered, clambering back onto Twinkle with all the grace of a sack of disgruntled potatoes. “We’re off to prove your worth in some arbitrary dragon hazing ritual. Don’t worry, I’ll just be over here quietly dying of anxiety.” Twinkle chirped cheerfully, as if volunteering for a carnival ride. The trial site turned out to be a canyon split so deep into the earth that even sunlight seemed afraid to enter. The elder dragon landed on one side, its wings stirring whirlwinds of dust, while Reginald and Twinkle teetered on a narrow outcropping across the gap. Between them stretched a rope bridge so rickety it looked like it had last been maintained by squirrels with a death wish. “The hatchling must cross,” the elder dragon declared. “It must reach me, though the winds will fight it.” Reginald peered over the edge of the canyon. The abyss seemed bottomless. He could practically hear his ancestors shouting, we told you not to leave the burrow! He turned to Twinkle, whose wide grin had dimmed into something halfway between nervousness and excitement. “You realize,” Reginald said, adjusting his hat, “that I am not built for inspirational speeches. I don’t do ‘you can do it.’ I do ‘why are we doing it at all.’ But here we are. So… listen carefully. Do not look down, do not sneeze fire at the ropes, and for the love of all that is unholy, do not grin so hard you forget to flap.” Twinkle chirped, then waddled onto the bridge, the ropes creaking ominously under his weight. Reginald, of course, had no choice but to follow, clutching the ropes as though they were his last tether to sanity. The wind howled, tugging at his beard and hat, and somewhere far below came the echoing cackle of something that very much wanted to see them fall. “Perfect,” he muttered. “The canyon comes with an audience.” Halfway across, disaster struck — naturally, because stories thrive on disaster. A sudden gust of wind roared up, twisting the bridge so violently that Reginald found himself dangling sideways like laundry on a line. Twinkle screeched, flapping frantically, wings smacking against the canyon walls. Reginald yelled, “Flap UP, you lunatic, not SIDEWAYS!” Somehow — through sheer stubbornness and a good deal of physics-defying nonsense — Twinkle found his rhythm. He steadied himself, wings catching the air just right, propelling him forward with a grace that surprised even him. Reginald clung to the dragon’s harness, eyes squeezed shut, muttering every prayer he could remember and several he invented on the spot. (“Dear whoever runs the afterlife, please don’t assign me to raccoon duty again…”) At last, they reached the far side, tumbling into the dust at the elder dragon’s feet. Reginald lay on his back, gasping like a fish left out of water. Twinkle, on the other hand, puffed proudly, chest swelling, tail wagging like a flag of victory. The elder dragon studied them in silence, then let out a low rumble that might almost have been… approval. “The hatchling is reckless,” it said. “But brave. Its flame will grow.” A pause. “And the gnome… is irritating. But resourceful.” Reginald sat up, brushing dirt from his beard. “I’ll take that as a compliment, though I notice you didn’t say handsome.” The elder dragon ignored him. “Go. Train the hatchling well. The world will need such absurd courage sooner than you think.” With that, the great wings unfurled again, carrying the elder dragon skyward, its shadow shrinking as it vanished into the clouds. Silence settled over the canyon. Reginald glanced at Twinkle, who beamed at him with uncontainable joy. Against his better judgment, the gnome chuckled. “Well,” he said, adjusting his hat, “looks like we didn’t die. That’s new.” Twinkle nuzzled him affectionately, nearly knocking him over again. “Fine, fine,” Reginald said, patting the dragon’s snout. “You did well, you ridiculous furnace. Perhaps we’ll make something of you yet.” They climbed back onto the harness. Twinkle leapt into the air, wings beating steadily now, confidence growing with each flap. Reginald clutched the ropes, grumbling as usual, but this time there was the faintest trace of a smile hiding in his beard. “Adventure,” he muttered. “A racket, sure. But maybe… not entirely a waste of time.” Below them, the canyon faded into shadow. Ahead, the horizon stretched, wide and waiting. And somewhere in the distance, Reginald swore he could already hear the wizard laughing. “Bartholomew,” he muttered darkly. “If this ends with me fighting trolls before breakfast, I’m sending you the bill.” Twinkle chirped brightly, banking toward the sunrise. Their absurd journey had only begun.     Bring a piece of "Tooth & Twinkle" into your own world. Reginald and Twinkle’s absurd, sky-high adventure doesn’t have to live only in words — you can capture the whimsy, the humor, and the magic in your home. Whether you want to hang their tale on your wall, piece it together slowly, or send a little joy in the mail, there’s a perfect option waiting for you: Framed Print – Add character and charm to any room with this enchanting artwork, ready to hang and brimming with storybook spirit. Acrylic Print – Bold, glossy, and luminous, perfect for showcasing every detail of Reginald’s exasperation and Twinkle’s irrepressible grin. Jigsaw Puzzle – Relive the adventure piece by piece, with a puzzle as whimsical (and occasionally frustrating) as the journey itself. Greeting Card – Send a smile, a laugh, or a spark of magic to someone you love — Reginald and Twinkle make unforgettable messengers. Sticker – Take the absurdity with you anywhere: laptops, water bottles, journals — a little dragon-fueled cheer for everyday life. However you choose to enjoy it, “Tooth & Twinkle” is ready to bring a dash of adventure and humor to your day. Because every home — and every heart — deserves a touch of the ridiculous.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Acorn Avenger

The Gnome, The Nut, and the Nonsense Somewhere in the leafy middle of nowhere, between the edge of “don’t go in there” and “oh hell, why did we come in here,” lived a legend. Not a tall legend. Not even an average-sized legend. No, this one came in just under three feet if you didn’t count the hat. And you had to count the hat, because it was about the only thing that gave him presence. He was The Acorn Avenger, and if you were expecting heroics involving dragons, maidens, or great bloody quests, you’ve come to the wrong wood. This was a gnome whose most daring battle to date had been against indigestion. But oh, did he strut. Bark armor clanked around his stubby frame like an overenthusiastic child wearing too many Lego pieces, while his face—ruddy cheeks, twinkling eyes, and a beard the exact shade of spilled cream ale—beamed with dangerous self-confidence. On his chest, slung by ropes that looked like they’d been borrowed from an old clothesline, bounced his closest companion: Nibbs the Acorn. And no, not just an ordinary acorn. Nibbs had a face. A wide-eyed, perpetually startled, wooden face. Worse yet, it talked sometimes. Or sang. Or squeaked. Depending on the mood. The locals called it cursed. The Avenger called it “backup vocals.” On this particular morning, The Acorn Avenger was stomping through the forest with the air of someone who believed the trees were secretly applauding him. His boots squelched in the mud, his bark armor creaked like an old door hinge, and Nibbs bounced merrily with every step. “Onward, noble steed!” he shouted at no one, since he owned no horse and was, in fact, simply walking. “I don’t think I like being referred to as a steed,” Nibbs muttered. His voice was somewhere between a kazoo and a squeaky drawer hinge. “I’m more of a sidekick. Or a tambourine.” “Sidekicks don’t usually hang off my sternum,” the Avenger replied, puffing his chest proudly. “Besides, you’re lucky. Some gnomes lug around pocket watches. Or shovels. You get to be the chosen nut.” “You say that like it’s a promotion,” Nibbs grumbled, then fell silent as a squirrel scampered past. The squirrel gave them both the kind of side-eye usually reserved for drunk relatives at weddings. You see, the animals of the forest had learned to endure The Acorn Avenger. He wasn’t malicious. He wasn’t cruel. He was just… loud. He once spent three consecutive nights challenging owls to staring contests. He accused raccoons of plotting against him because they wore “bandit masks.” And once, he drew his bark sword against a deer, declaring, “Unhand the grass, villain!” The deer continued chewing and, as expected, won the duel by default. Still, the gnome was tolerated. Mostly. Until the mushrooms began to organize. But I’m getting ahead of myself. That morning, the Avenger climbed atop a mossy rock, striking what he believed to be a heroic pose. His hat drooped left in protest, but otherwise it was magnificent. “Hear me, Whispering Wood!” he cried, his voice echoing weakly through the mist. “I am the Acorn Avenger, defender of twigs, scourge of beetles, the bane of damp socks, and—most importantly—the only one here with a musical nut!” Nibbs squeaked like a deflating balloon to punctuate the moment. Somewhere in the underbrush, a rabbit muttered something rude in Lapine. Birds ruffled their feathers and muttered to each other like gossipy grandmothers. Even the trees seemed unimpressed. But The Acorn Avenger didn’t notice—or chose not to. Confidence, after all, is the art of ignoring reality with enthusiasm. “Adventure awaits, Nibbs!” he boomed, hopping off the rock and immediately landing ankle-deep in a puddle. Bark armor is not waterproof. He squelched forward anyway, determined. “Today, destiny calls!” “Destiny sounds damp,” Nibbs said dryly. “And smells like wet bark.” “Nonsense,” the Avenger snapped. “Destiny smells like victory! And perhaps roasted chestnuts. But mostly victory!” They trudged deeper into the forest, unaware that something small, spongy, and deeply offended was already watching them from the shadows. Something that had had enough of his nonsense. Something… fungal. The Fungus Among Us Every great hero has a nemesis. Achilles had Hector. Sherlock had Moriarty. The Acorn Avenger? Well, he had mushrooms. Yes, mushrooms. Don’t laugh—it’s terribly rude. These weren’t your harmless “toss them on pizza” kind of mushrooms. These were the puffed-up, resentful, perpetually damp kind, with little round heads and a grudge against anyone who stepped on them (which, in fairness, the Avenger did frequently and with dramatic flair). Our gnome had a habit of kicking at toadstools whenever he wanted to “make an entrance.” He once leapt from behind a log shouting “Prepare to be astonished!” and stomped squarely onto a mushroom ring, scattering spores everywhere. To him, this was harmless fun. To the fungi, it was an act of war. And fungi, unlike squirrels or deer, didn’t forget. They multiplied. They whispered in damp corners. They waited. On this damp morning, as the Avenger sloshed deeper into the trees, an entire conclave of mushrooms gathered in the shadows. Puffballs, shiitakes, chanterelles, even a terrifyingly pompous porcini—all arranged in a circle that looked suspiciously like a committee meeting. Their leader, a massive, sulking morel with a voice like wet corduroy, cleared his nonexistent throat. “The gnome must go.” Gasps echoed around the ring. A portly button mushroom fainted. A deadly-looking Amanita tried to clap but succeeded only in wobbling. “He mocks us,” the morel continued, darkly. “He tramples our rings. He spreads our spores without consent. Worst of all, he makes jokes about ‘mushroom puns.’” The mushrooms shuddered collectively. One piped up timidly: “But… what if he’s the chosen one? You know, foretold by the prophecy?” “Prophecy?” the morel snapped. “That was just graffiti on the side of a log. It said ‘Fun Guys Rule.’ It wasn’t divine, it was vandalism.” Meanwhile, blissfully unaware of the fungal plot, The Acorn Avenger continued tromping through the wood, narrating loudly to himself like a bard who’d been fired for excessive enthusiasm. “Mark my words, Nibbs, today we shall encounter great peril, test our courage, and maybe—just maybe—find that legendary tavern with the half-priced mead pitchers!” “I’d settle for finding a towel,” Nibbs muttered, still squeaky with damp. The gnome paused. “Do you hear that?” “Hear what?” “Exactly. Silence. Too silent. The kind of silence that suggests dramatic tension.” He narrowed his eyes. His bark armor groaned like a cranky chair. “This can only mean one thing… ambush.” Of course, he was correct. But not in the way he thought. He expected goblins, maybe wolves, possibly tax collectors. What he got was… mushrooms. Dozens of them. They emerged slowly from the underbrush, wobbling like damp cupcakes, forming a circle around him. Some glowed faintly. Some spat spores into the air like smoke bombs. It was less intimidating than the Avenger’s imagination had promised, but still—he had to admit—eerily organized. “Oh no,” Nibbs groaned. “Not them again.” “Aha!” The Avenger puffed out his chest. “Villains! Foes! Fungus fiends!” He raised his barky fist. “You dare stand against the Acorn Avenger?” “We dare,” said the morel leader, his voice damp and gurgling, like soup simmering resentfully. “We are the Mycelium Collective. And you, sir, are a menace to soil stability, spore sovereignty, and good taste in general.” “I’ll have you know I am beloved by all creatures of the forest!” The Avenger shouted, though the birds, squirrels, and one deeply unimpressed fox nearby rolled their eyes in unison. “Beloved?!” scoffed the Amanita, wobbling forward dramatically. “You’ve urinated in no fewer than three fairy rings.” “That was ONE TIME!” the Avenger shouted. “And technically, twice. But who keeps count?” “We do,” the mushrooms intoned together. It was like a choir of damp towels. Nibbs sighed. “You’ve really done it now. You don’t anger mushrooms. You don’t mock mushrooms. And above all, you don’t step on mushrooms. You should’ve known better. You’re basically at war with a salad bar.” “Silence, acorn!” the morel roared. “You, too, are complicit. You hang upon the chest of this fool, squeaking your support.” “Oh, don’t drag me into this,” Nibbs snapped. “I’ve been trying to unionize for years. He doesn’t listen.” The Avenger gasped. “Unionize? You… you traitor!” Before Nibbs could respond, the mushrooms began to advance. Slowly, yes, because they were mushrooms and their legs—well, they didn’t technically have legs, but they sort of shuffled in a way that implied locomotion. Still, there were many of them, and they encircled the gnome with grim determination. Spores drifted into the air, glowing faintly in the morning light. It looked less like a battle and more like an aggressively weird festival. “This is your end, Acorn Avenger,” the morel declared. “The forest will no longer suffer your antics. Prepare to be… composted.” The Avenger tightened his fists, bark creaking. His hat twitched heroically in the breeze. “Very well. If it is war you want, it is war you shall have.” He grinned madly. “I’ll make mulch of the lot of you!” “That’s a terrible pun,” Nibbs whispered. “Please don’t say that again.” And with that, the battle of gnome versus fungus officially began—though whether it would end in glory, disaster, or the world’s weirdest soup recipe remained to be seen. The Spores of War The air grew thick with spores, glowing like fireflies on a drunken bender. The mushrooms shuffled closer, their damp caps glistening with menace. To the casual observer, it might have looked like a salad slowly closing in on a man who really should’ve stayed home. But to the Acorn Avenger, this was destiny. Finally, a battle worthy of his legend—or at least a battle that would look impressive in his memoirs if he exaggerated the details (which, of course, he would). “Nibbs!” he barked, striking a pose so heroic that his bark armor immediately squealed in protest. “Today we make history. Today we show these fungal fiends what it means to face the power of gnome-kind!” “Power of gnome-kind?” Nibbs muttered. “The last time you flexed that power, you lost an arm-wrestling contest to a dandelion stem.” “That stem had been working out,” the Avenger snapped back. He unslung his bark sword—really just a sharpened plank he’d stolen from a picnic table—and brandished it with wild confidence. “Face me, spongy scoundrels!” The Mycelium Collective advanced, puffing spores like disgruntled chimneys. The morel leader stepped forward dramatically. “You will fall, gnome. You will rot beneath our caps. The forest shall sprout from your foolish remains.” “Over my hat!” the Avenger bellowed. He leapt forward, which was impressive in spirit if not in distance (gnomes don’t leap very far). His sword came down with a thwack, cleaving a puffball in two. Spores exploded everywhere like someone had shaken a bag of flour in a sauna. He coughed, sneezed, and shouted, “First blood!” “That’s not blood,” Nibbs squeaked, muffled by spores. “That’s fungus dust. You’re basically sneezing on your enemies.” “Sneezing is my weapon!” the Avenger declared proudly, before unleashing an almighty sneeze that blew three button mushrooms onto their backs. The mushrooms retaliated. One Amanita hurled spores like a smoke bomb, filling the clearing with a choking haze. Another launched itself bodily at the gnome, smacking into his armor with a wet splut. The Avenger staggered but remained upright, laughing maniacally. “Is that all you’ve got?!” “This is getting ridiculous,” muttered a fox, watching from the sidelines. “I came here for a quiet breakfast and now I’m in the middle of a fungal circus.” The Avenger swung his sword in wild arcs, chopping down mushrooms left and right. But for every one that fell, three more shuffled forward. The forest floor pulsed with life, the hidden network of mycelium beneath the soil whispering, summoning reinforcements. Tiny mushrooms sprouted instantly at his feet, tripping him. He fell backward with a grunt, his hat sliding sideways. “Victory… is slipping…!” he groaned dramatically, flailing like an upturned turtle. Nibbs swung against his chest with each movement, squeaking in protest. “Stop rolling, you idiot, you’re crushing my face!” Just as the mushrooms prepared to bury him beneath a tide of damp caps, the gnome’s eyes lit up. “Of course!” he cried. “Their weakness!” He yanked Nibbs free from his chest straps and held the acorn aloft like a divine relic. “Nibbs, unleash your secret weapon!” “What secret weapon?!” Nibbs squealed. “The one I’ve been saving for this very moment! You know, the… uh… thing!” “I don’t have a thing!” “Yes, you do! Do the… squeaky scream!” Nibbs blinked his wooden eyes, then sighed. “Fine.” He opened his tiny acorn mouth and let out a noise so shrill, so piercing, it made bats drop from the treetops and worms evacuate the soil in protest. The mushrooms froze. The spores quivered in midair. The forest itself seemed to pause, as though embarrassed to witness such a sound. The gnome seized the moment. He scrambled to his feet, sword raised, and shouted, “Behold! The power of the Acorn Avenger—and his terrible, terrible nut!” With one final, heroic sneeze (it was mostly phlegm, honestly), he charged through the stunned mushrooms, scattering them like bowling pins. Caps flew, spores popped, and the morel leader toppled into a puddle with an indignant splush. When the spores finally cleared, the battlefield was a mess of trampled fungi and damp gnome footprints. The Avenger stood panting, his hat askew, his armor smeared with questionable goo. He raised his sword triumphantly. “Victory!” “You’re covered in fungus,” Nibbs observed flatly. “You smell like a compost bin. And I think you have mold in your beard.” “All part of the heroic aesthetic,” the gnome replied, striking a pose despite his dripping state. “From this day forth, let it be known: The Acorn Avenger fears no fungus! I am the champion of the Whispering Wood! Protector of squirrels! Defender of damp places!” The fox watching nearby rolled its eyes. “Congratulations,” it muttered. “You’ve won a war against side salad.” Then it trotted off, unimpressed. And so the forest quieted again, the Mycelium Collective scattered but not entirely defeated. Somewhere beneath the soil, spores whispered their vows of revenge. But for now, the Acorn Avenger strutted home, squeaky nut in tow, already planning how he’d embellish this tale at the tavern. And if anyone doubted him? Well, he’d simply shout louder until they gave up. That, after all, was the true power of the Acorn Avenger: unstoppable confidence, questionable hygiene, and an acorn with lungs strong enough to wake the dead.     Bring The Acorn Avenger Home If you enjoyed the absurd saga of bark armor, squeaky nuts, and mushroom mayhem, you don’t have to leave it in the forest. The Acorn Avenger can march straight into your life with a range of whimsical treasures. Dress up your walls with a Framed Print or a bold Metal Print, perfect for adding a splash of fantasy and humor to your décor. Prefer something more personal? Jot down your own epic gnome-versus-fungus chronicles in a handy Spiral Notebook, or carry a piece of his mischief everywhere with a quirky Sticker. Each item features the playful, richly detailed imagery of The Acorn Avenger—perfect for fans of fantasy art, woodland whimsy, or anyone who just really, really hates mushrooms.

por Bill Tiepelman

Snuggle Scales

Of Blossoms, Boredom, and Blunt Claws Snuggle Scales was not her given name. No self-respecting dragon would hatch with a name that sounded like it belonged to a toddler’s bedtime plushie. No, she was born as Flareth Sparkfang the Third, a name that demanded respect, fear, and at the very least, a mildly dramatic soundtrack. But that all changed when she tumbled—quite literally—out of her cozy cave and landed butt-first in a bed of cherry blossoms, wings tangled and claws pointed skyward, like a fallen croissant with an attitude. That’s when the forest gnomes found her. All seventy-three of them. “OH MY GOODNESS, IT’S GOT TOES!” one of them shrieked with the volume of a kazoo in heat. “AND LOOK AT HER LITTLE BELLY FLUFF!” another gushed, already crocheting a pink bow mid-hyperventilation. The vote to rename her "Snuggle Scales" was unanimous. Flarespark-whatever was never mentioned again—except by her therapist (a deeply overworked toad named Dr. Gloomp). Now, Snuggle Scales lived in the *Whifflewood Glade*, an aggressively cheerful corner of the Enchanted Lands that always smelled faintly of cinnamon and gossip. It was springtime, which meant the petals were falling like pink confetti, the birds were practicing passive-aggressive harmonies, and Snuggle Scales had reached peak boredom. She'd already rearranged her claw polish collection (sixteen shades of 'Molten Mischief'), ironed her tail ribbons, and sorted her wing glitter by sass level. So, she decided to do something no baby dragon had dared before. She would leave the glade. She would enter The Human Realm. Why? Because dragons were meant to soar, not pose for gnome-sponsored tea parties with daffodil cupcakes and emotional support hedgehogs named Crispin. And if one more elf tried to paint her scales for “pastel realism” art class, she was going to burn their easel into bite-sized regret. So, with her wings fluffed, talons sharpened, and bow freshly fluffed, Snuggle Scales grabbed her emotional support mushroom (don’t judge), did a dramatic stretch for the imaginary audience, and waddled confidently toward the portal tree. Which, of course, had a “Wet Bark” sign hanging from it. “You have GOT to be kidding me,” she muttered, tapping the wood like a suspicious landlord. “I swear, if I get moss on my tail again, I’m suing the forest.” And with one last eye-roll at the overly fragrant breeze, Snuggle Scales stepped through the tree, into a world of chaos, caffeine, and, as she would soon discover, feral toddlers at birthday parties. Caffeine, Cupcakes, and Catastrophic Bounce Houses The Human Realm was not what Snuggle Scales expected. She had envisioned grand towers, mysterious music, and possibly a ritualistic offering of snacks. Instead, she crash-landed in the middle of a suburban park — face-first into a pink plastic picnic table covered in unicorn napkins and half-eaten cupcakes. A small human screamed. Then another. Then several. Within seconds, she was surrounded by a battalion of sticky-fingered, frosting-smeared toddlers — the terrifying kind that ask “Why?” five hundred times and think personal space is a myth. “LOOK! A LIZARD!” one of them shrieked, pointing at her with a sparkly wand that smelled like raspberry sanitizer and poor decisions. “She’s a DINOSAUR!” said another, already attempting to mount her tail like a pony ride. Snuggle Scales was two seconds away from turning this party into a fiery lesson in boundaries, but just then — she locked eyes with the ringleader. A tiny human queen in a glitter crown and a tutu the size of a small planet. “You’re invited,” the girl said solemnly, offering her a cupcake with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything in her life. “You’re my special guest now.” Snuggle Scales blinked. The cupcake was vanilla. It had edible glitter. And more importantly, it was presented without any adult supervision. With great dignity (and minor frosting inhalation), she accepted. Two hours later, Snuggle Scales was inexplicably wearing a Hello Kitty sticker on her snout, had adopted the name “Miss Wiggles,” and had somehow agreed to be the grand finale in a game called *Pin the Sparkle on the Reptile.* “This is a new low,” she muttered, glancing sideways at a balloon animal that looked like a depressed goat. “I used to be feared. I used to be majestic.” “You used to be lonely,” said a tiny voice from under the cupcake table. It was the birthday girl, now minus the crown and frosting but plus a surprisingly sharp sense of emotional timing. Snuggle Scales looked at her — really looked at her. She had that messy, defiant, beautiful chaos that reminded the dragon of spring mornings in the glade. Of imperfect gnome poetry. Of soft petals on scales and snorting laughter during daffodil charades. And for the first time since she'd crossed into this sugar-coated world, something inside her softened. “Do you... want to pet my toe beans?” she offered, lifting a foot. The child gasped in reverent delight. “YES.” And just like that, an unspoken contract was sealed: the girl would never tell anyone that Miss Wiggles had accidentally belched glitter mid-yawn, and Snuggle Scales would never admit that she now owned a friendship bracelet made of licorice string and rainbow beads. “You’re magic,” the girl whispered, curling up beside her under the shade of the party tent. “Can you stay forever?” Snuggle Scales hesitated. Forever was a long time. Long enough for more birthdays. More cupcakes. More of this squishy, imperfect chaos that somehow made her scales feel warmer. And maybe… just maybe… long enough to teach these tiny humans how to properly use wing glitter. She looked up at the sky, half-expecting a portal to yank her back. But nothing came. Just a breeze carrying the scent of sugar, grass, and potential. “We’ll see,” she said, smirking. “But only if I get my own bounce house next time.” “Deal,” the girl said. “And a tiara.” Snuggle Scales snorted. “Obviously.” And so, the rest of the party unfolded in a blur of squeals, sprinkles, and unlicensed dragon rides. Somewhere between her second slice of confetti cake and a dance-off with a toddler DJ, Snuggle Scales forgot entirely why she ever thought she was too big, too bold, or too weird for a little human joy. Turns out, she wasn’t the only creature who’d needed rescuing that day. Of Glittering Goodbyes and Slightly Illegal Tiara Smuggling Monday morning hit the human realm like a caffeinated squirrel. The park was empty. The balloons had deflated into sad rubber pancakes, the frosting had turned crusty in the sun, and someone had stolen the bounce house (probably Gary from next door — he looked shady). Snuggle Scales sat in the middle of the battlefield — I mean, playground — still wearing her licorice friendship bracelet and a flower crown made of dandelions, which she had not agreed to but now kind of loved. She’d stayed the night curled up under a picnic table, half-watching the stars, half-listening to the little girl breathe in her sleep beside her. She hadn’t slept. Dragons didn’t sleep during soul shifts. Because something was shifting. Back in Whifflewood, the seasons were changing. The trees would be gossiping. The gnomes would be filing a formal “Where Is Our Dramatic Baby?” complaint. And Dr. Gloomp was probably sending passive-aggressive mushrooms through the portal. The forest wanted her back. But… did she want back? “You’re still here,” said a sleepy voice beside her. The girl sat up, hair wild, tutu wrinkled, eyes soft. “I thought maybe you were a dream.” Snuggle Scales sighed, releasing a small puff of glitter-smoke. “I mean, I’m adorable enough to be. But no. Real dragon. Still technically fierce. Now 37% cupcake.” The girl giggled, then got serious in that intense child way that feels like an emotional ambush. “You don’t look like you want to go home.” “Home is... complicated,” Snuggle said. “It’s full of expectations. Rituals. Very clingy gnomes. I’m supposed to be majestic. Breathe fire on command. Pretend I’m not obsessed with sparkles.” “But you can breathe sparkles now,” the girl pointed out. “And you’re so majestic when you do a dance spin before sneezing.” Snuggle blinked. “You mean... my patented Glitter Twirl Sneeze™?” “That one,” the girl whispered reverently. “It changed me.” They sat in silence, the kind that only exists when two odd souls have found an unexpected alignment. Then — the wind shifted. “Uh oh,” said Snuggle Scales. The portal tree was humming behind them, its bark glowing with that “ancient magic plus low battery warning” vibe. If she didn’t return soon, it might close. Permanently. “If I go now,” she said slowly, “I’ll be stuck there until next spring. And honestly, gnome karaoke season starts soon. It’s a nightmare.” The girl stood up, walked to the tree, and did something astonishing. She *hugged it.* “You can come visit her,” she said to the tree like it was an ex-boyfriend who still had good books. “But you don’t get to trap her.” The portal shimmered. Flickered. Then… waited. Snuggle Scales blinked. That had never happened before. Trees didn’t negotiate. But maybe — just maybe — it wasn’t the tree deciding anymore. “You’re magic,” she whispered to the girl, her voice caught between a sob and a snort. “I know,” the girl replied. “But don’t tell anyone. They’ll make me run the PTA.” They hugged, long and fierce. Dragon claws against glitter-stained hands. Old magic meeting new. Snuggle Scales stepped into the portal. Just one foot. Just enough to keep the door open. And then, before anyone could stop her, she turned around and tossed the flower crown to the girl. “If you ever need me,” she said, “just light a vanilla cupcake and whisper, ‘Slay, Miss Wiggles.’ I’ll come running.” The portal closed with a pop. And far away, back in the glade, the gnomes gasped in horror — because their baby dragon had returned wearing a homemade tiara, toe polish in four different colors, and an attitude that would not be contained. Spring had come. And Snuggle Scales? She had bloomed. And heaven help the next elf who tried to paint her scales without permission.     Love Snuggle Scales as much as she loves toe polish and rebellion? Bring home the magic — and a little cheeky dragon charm — with these delightful products inspired by our sassiest hatchling yet: Framed Print — Perfect for nurseries, nooks, or any wall that needs a little sparkle and sass. Acrylic Print — A bold, vivid statement piece with magical gloss and mythical attitude. Jigsaw Puzzle — Because nothing says “cozy chaos” like piecing together a dragon’s glitter sneeze in 500 bits. Greeting Card — Send someone a snuggly fire-breath of joy (and maybe a tiara). Whether you hang her on your wall, piece her together on a cozy afternoon, or send her to a friend who needs a giggle — Snuggle Scales is ready to bring whimsy, warmth, and just the right amount of dragon drama to your world.

por Bill Tiepelman

Blossomfire Hatchling

The Hatchling in the Meadow In the world’s forgotten folds—where maps grew skittish and cartographers quietly pretended certain regions didn’t exist—there lived a creature that would one day become legend. For now, however, she was a wobbling, squeaking, sass-laden baby dragon who had the audacity to hatch beneath a tree that never stopped blooming. Her scales glimmered like warm embers wrapped in rose petals, a curious mix of fragility and fire, and so the villagers who whispered about her called her the Blossomfire Hatchling. Now, if you think hatchlings are supposed to be delicate, reserved little things—content to blink wide-eyed at the world and coo gently—you clearly haven’t met this one. From the very moment her eggshell cracked, she was already a critic. The air was too cold. The petals falling on her head were too pushy. The sunlight hit her left wing at a suspicious angle. And don’t get her started on the clumsy butterflies who thought her nose was a landing strip. She gave each of them the kind of side-eye that could curdle milk. Still, the meadow was hers. Or at least, she decided it was hers. Hatchlings rarely ask permission. She planted her chubby behind on a moss-covered log, puffed out her tiny chest, and declared herself queen by way of a wobbly wave. The bees, naturally, didn’t approve of this appointment—they were unionized, after all—but they were forced to accept her sovereignty after she accidentally sneezed and set an entire patch of nettles aflame. The bees voted 12-3 to just let her have the meadow. Democracy in action. She was no ordinary sight. Her wings, though currently as useless as lace curtains on a potato, shimmered faintly with rainbow hues whenever the sun dared kiss them. The hatchling herself was a bundle of contradictions: fierce yet adorable, loud yet somehow enchanting, destructive yet oddly good for business. A farmer swore that after she winked at him from across the field, his potatoes grew the size of small boulders. Another villager insisted that after she burped during a thunderstorm, his pond frogs suddenly developed the ability to croak in baritone harmonies. Whether these stories were true or just beer-inspired exaggerations was irrelevant—they spread like wildfire, much like the unfortunate haystack incident she would never live down. The hatchling, of course, was blissfully unaware of all this. She had no concept of legend, of worship, of fearful whispers that spoke of “what will she be like once she grows.” Her world was simple: blossoms, bugs, sunbeams, and the occasional stubborn squirrel who refused to bow to her rule. She was certain the meadow belonged entirely to her, and if you dared disagree, she would stomp her tiny foot and squeak with such authority that even grown men reconsidered their life choices. But for all her sass and fire, there was sweetness too. At sunset, when the sky flushed pink and gold, she would stretch her stubby wings and gaze toward the horizon. She imagined soaring, though she had no real clue what flying felt like. Sometimes, when the wind swirled, she thought she could almost lift off, only to land flat on her rear with an indignant snort. And yet she kept trying, because even in her potato-with-curtains stage, hope burned as brightly as the spark in her scales. Travelers who stumbled into her meadow often spoke of a strange warmth. Not the kind from the sun, but the kind that curled inside the chest and made the world feel a little softer, a little kinder. Some left with baskets of flowers that bloomed twice as bright. Others swore their luck improved after glimpsing her little wave. She was a living rumor, a myth in training, a hatchling destined for something neither she nor anyone else could yet define. Of course, destiny wasn’t on her mind. At this stage in her life, she was far more concerned with whether daisies or dandelions made a better afternoon snack (spoiler: they both tasted like disappointment, though she chewed them anyway with great ceremony). She spent her days tumbling through blossoms, chasing shadows, and perfecting her royal wave. In her eyes, she was already the reigning monarch of whimsy and sass, and no one could convince her otherwise. Perhaps, in her own way, she was right. After all, when you’re a dragon—even a baby one—the world tends to bend just a little in your favor. A Whiff of Trouble By the time the Blossomfire Hatchling had survived her first season in the meadow, she had gained a reputation among the locals as both a blessing and a menace. Blessing because gardens bloomed twice as lush when she pranced near them, menace because laundry lines had an unfortunate habit of spontaneously catching fire if she sneezed. One might think the villagers would avoid the meadow entirely, but humans are a strange breed. Some brought offerings—baskets of honey, fresh fruit, shiny trinkets—hoping to win her favor. Others crept in at night, muttering that the “beast” should be driven out before she grew larger. The hatchling, of course, remained gloriously oblivious. She thought the baskets of fruit simply rained from the sky. She believed the whispers in the night were owls who had nothing better to do. And she assumed that shiny trinkets simply sprouted like mushrooms. In her mind, she was not only the monarch of the meadow but also clearly the universe’s favorite child. If anyone disagreed, well… she had ways of making her opinions known. It was during one particularly warm afternoon that her destiny—or at least her first great adventure—came sniffing through the tall grass. Literally sniffing. A fox, lean and red-furred, with eyes the color of old copper coins, slunk into her kingdom. He had the swagger of someone who’d stolen too many chickens and gotten away with it. The hatchling watched him with wide, curious eyes from atop her mossy log throne. The fox, equally curious, tilted his head as if to say, “What in the fiery underworld are you supposed to be?” She answered with a squeaky roar. Not exactly intimidating, but effective enough. The fox flinched, then smirked—if foxes can smirk, and this one most certainly could. “Little ember,” he said in a voice that purred like smoke, “you sit like a queen but smell like a campfire. Who are you to claim this meadow?” The hatchling flapped her stubby wings with indignation. Who was she? She was the Blossomfire Hatchling. She was blossom and flame, sass and sparkle, ruler of bees, terror of squirrels, and breaker of laundry lines! She squeaked again, longer this time, and added a defiant stomp. The meadow itself seemed to tremble, though that was probably just the fox’s imagination. “Well,” the fox chuckled, circling her throne-log. “You’ve got guts, potato-with-wings. But guts aren’t enough. This meadow is prime real estate for foxes. Rabbits taste better here, and the beetles crunch like candy. If you think you can keep it, you’ll need to prove yourself.” The hatchling puffed up like a dandelion in full seed. Prove herself? Challenge accepted. She sneezed once, singeing the grass dangerously close to his tail. The fox yelped, leapt three feet in the air, and landed with his fur smoking. She giggled—a wheezy, flame-flecked giggle—and stomped again for good measure. The fox’s smirk faltered. Maybe, just maybe, this potato was trouble. But before he could retreat, the ground shuddered with an altogether different presence. Out from the tree line lumbered a bear. Not just any bear—a massive old creature with a patchy coat, scarred snout, and a crown of burrs tangled in his fur. He was grumpy. He was hungry. And he had a nose for honey, which was precisely what the villagers had left at the edge of the meadow that morning. The hatchling froze, her tiny wings quivering. The fox swore under his breath and crouched low. The bear sniffed once, twice, then turned his great head toward the mossy log. Toward her. Toward the little ember that had no business being so bright. For a moment, the meadow held its breath. Even the bees stopped mid-buzz, as if deciding whether it was wiser to abandon ship. The hatchling, however, remembered she was queen. Queens did not cower. Queens commanded. And so she stood, wobbling but defiant, and gave her best squeaky roar yet—so loud it startled herself. To her surprise, the bear paused. He blinked at her. Then he did something wholly unexpected: he snorted, rolled onto his back, and began scratching his back in the dirt as though she had just given him permission to lounge. The fox blinked, utterly flummoxed. “What in all nine trickster tales… did you just tame that bear?” The hatchling, seizing the opportunity, puffed out her chest and waved a tiny paw as if to say, “Yes, obviously. This is how royalty handles things.” Inside, her little heart hammered like a drum. She hadn’t tamed anything—she had just gotten incredibly lucky. But luck, she decided, was as good a crown as any. News of the bear incident spread quickly. By dusk, whispers carried from village to village: the Blossomfire Hatchling had allies. First bees, now bears. What would be next—wolves, owls, the river itself? She was no longer just a rumor. She was a force. And forces, as history likes to remind us, rarely stay small. But destiny wasn’t done toying with her yet. The very next morning, she woke to find not just fox eyes watching her, but the glint of something colder, sharper, human. Someone had finally come to take her away. Fire, Folly, and a Flicker of Destiny The dawn broke golden over the meadow, each petal dew-dappled and sparkling as if the world itself had dressed in diamonds for the day. The Blossomfire Hatchling stretched on her mossy throne, wings twitching, tail curling lazily. She was queen, and the kingdom was peaceful—or so she thought. She hadn’t noticed the rustle of leather boots in the underbrush, the faint glimmer of steel catching morning light, the human breath held just beyond the tree line. Three figures emerged from the shadows like badly timed thunderclouds: a wiry man in a patchwork cloak, a woman with a crossbow too large for her body, and a grizzled knight who looked as though retirement had been forced upon him far too late. They were not villagers bearing offerings. They were hunters—and they had come for her. The fox, sly observer that he was, slunk into the tall grass with a muttered, “Good luck, potato-with-wings. I don’t do humans.” The bear, already half-asleep, rolled over and snored. The hatchling was on her own. “By order of the High Council!” the knight bellowed, though it came out more wheezy than regal. “The creature known as the Blossomfire Hatchling is to be captured and contained! For the safety of the people!” The hatchling tilted her head. Contained? As if she were some sort of butter churn? Absolutely not. She squeaked furiously, flapped her stubby wings, and stomped so hard a mushroom nearby burst into spores. The humans, unimpressed, advanced. The crossbow bolt came first—zipping through the air toward her little chest. It might have struck true if she hadn’t sneezed at that exact moment. The sneeze, fiery and unladylike, turned the bolt into molten goo that dribbled harmlessly onto the ground. The wiry man swore. The knight groaned. The hatchling burped smoke and blinked, surprised at herself. Then chaos unfurled like a badly rolled rug. The hunters lunged. The hatchling ran. Her tiny legs pumped furiously, wings flapping in useless panic. Through blossoms, under logs, across streams she darted, squealing indignantly the whole way. Arrows thunked into tree trunks behind her. Nets swooshed over her head. At one point, the wiry man tripped and cursed, tangling himself in his own rope, which the fox found hilarious. But luck, fickle as ever, didn’t hold forever. At the meadow’s edge, she skidded to a stop. A wall of iron cages loomed, dragged there by horses she hadn’t noticed before. The smell of cold metal and fear seeped into her nose. For the first time, the Blossomfire Hatchling felt her flame flicker low. She was small. They were many. And queens, as it turned out, could indeed be cornered. The knight raised his sword. The woman reloaded her crossbow. The wiry man, finally untangled, grinned with the triumph of someone about to become wealthy at another’s expense. “Bag her,” he hissed. “She’ll fetch a king’s ransom.” But destiny, cheeky rascal that it is, had other plans. The earth trembled—not with the clumsy charge of men, but with the rolling, unmistakable snore of the bear. He had woken cranky, and nothing is crankier than a bear whose nap is disturbed by humans waving pointy sticks. With a roar that rattled the marrow of every living creature, the bear barreled into the clearing, swatting weapons aside like toys. The hunters scattered, shrieking. One dove headfirst into his own cage and promptly locked himself in. The crossbow clattered uselessly to the ground. Even the knight, weary and world-worn, muttered something about “not being paid enough for this” and bolted. The hatchling blinked at the chaos, her little jaw hanging open. She hadn’t roared. She hadn’t fought. She had just… stood there. And yet, the meadow had risen for her. The fox slunk back into view, licking a paw with smug amusement. “Not bad, potato. Not bad at all. You’ve got bears on payroll now. I’d say you’re doing alright.” But as the dust settled, something curious happened. The hatchling felt warmth not just in her scales but deep in her chest. A glow. A pull. She waddled forward, past the broken nets and bent swords, and pressed her tiny paw to the iron cages. To her astonishment, the metal softened beneath her touch, blooming into vines covered in flowers. She squeaked in delight. The cages melted away, becoming harmless trellises. The humans stared, dumbstruck. The knight, kneeling now, whispered, “By the gods… she is no monster.” His voice cracked with awe. “She is a guardian.” The hatchling, who still considered herself primarily a professional stomper and dandelion-chewer, had no idea what any of this meant. But she waved anyway, as if to say, Yes, yes, bow to the potato queen. The villagers would tell the story for generations: how a baby dragon turned weapons into blossoms, how a fox and a bear became her unlikely companions, and how destiny itself bent like iron before her. Some would swear she grew into a mighty dragon, defender of the valley. Others insisted she remained small forever, a perpetual hatchling who ruled through charm rather than flame. But those who had seen her, truly seen her, knew the truth. She was more than blossom. She was more than fire. She was hope wrapped in scales, a sassy miracle with a sneeze that could change the world. And the best part? Her story was only just beginning.     Bring the Blossomfire Hatchling Home The tale of the Blossomfire Hatchling doesn’t have to stay within these words—it can brighten your own world, too. Whether you want her sass and sparkle glowing from your wall, your coffee table, or even your cozy reading nook, she’s ready to bring her whimsical fire into your daily life. Adorn your walls with her magic through a framed fine art print or a bold canvas print. If you crave a bit of play, challenge yourself with a puzzle that brings her meadow kingdom to life piece by piece. For something heartfelt and shareable, send her charm to loved ones with a greeting card. Or, if cozy comfort is more your style, wrap yourself in her warmth with a soft fleece blanket. Wherever she lands, the Blossomfire Hatchling brings with her a spark of whimsy, hope, and just enough sass to keep your days interesting. Let her story live not just in imagination, but in your home.

por Bill Tiepelman

Nebula-Winged Wisdom

The Owl Who Knew Too Much In the beginning — before calendars, before clocks, before that awkward invention of “daylight savings time” — there was only the silence of the void. And in that silence perched an owl. Not just any owl, mind you, but a colossal, shimmering creature whose feathers were dipped in nebulae and whose wings stretched across constellations. Mortals called it by many names: The Silent Watcher, The Feathery Oracle, The Cosmic Feather-Duster. But the stars themselves whispered one title in awe: Nebula-Winged Wisdom. This owl was no ordinary wise old bird delivering fortune-cookie advice. Oh no, it was a living archive of every secret the universe had ever coughed up — from the recipe for black holes (hint: too much dark matter in one pot) to the embarrassing karaoke sessions of gods who thought no one was listening. Its eyes glowed like twin suns not just because they were radiant, but because they had witnessed the rise and fall of worlds, lovers, civilizations, and regrettable fashion choices involving cosmic spandex. The legend goes that if you caught the owl’s gaze, you’d either be blessed with a sudden surge of wisdom or doomed to know just a little too much. Like the knowledge that the universe isn’t infinite — it just loops like a cosmic rerun, and yes, you’ve already read this story forty-seven times before in slightly different socks. Ominous? Absolutely. But also kind of funny, if you ask the owl. After all, eternity is one long joke, and the punchline hasn’t landed yet. Mortals feared the owl, yet they also adored it. Lovers made wishes beneath its wings, poets drank themselves silly trying to capture its silhouette in words, and kings demanded to know if their conquests impressed it. The owl said nothing, only hooted — a sound that could echo across galaxies and make black holes quiver. Was it laughter? Was it doom? Only the owl knew, and it wasn’t telling. But once, long ago, when the stars were young and the universe still smelled faintly of creation dust, the owl broke its silence. And what it said would alter the destiny of everything — or at least ruin dinner for a few billion mortals. Because when the owl spoke, it didn’t offer riddles or prophecies. It offered a warning, wrapped in feathers and delivered with the humor of a trickster god. “Wisdom,” it declared, “is knowing which star not to lick.” And so the legend begins... The Night of Feathers and Fire The owl’s warning — “Wisdom is knowing which star not to lick” — echoed across the cosmos for millennia, baffling scholars and delighting jesters in equal measure. Whole civilizations rose and fell trying to decipher it. Was it metaphorical? A riddle? Or a literal warning not to lick stars, which, admittedly, did sound like something a reckless space-pirate would try at least once. Mortals wrote epics, carved temples, and even held yearly festivals where they roasted glowing fruits under the stars, chanting, “Don’t lick the sun, don’t lick the moon!” Nobody fully understood, but everyone agreed it was probably important. Meanwhile, the owl itself was content to perch on the arm of Orion, flap its wings across the Pleiades, and occasionally swoop down through galaxies like a drunken comet with feathers. It was equal parts terrifying and hilarious to watch. Nebula-Winged Wisdom had a knack for showing up at the most inconvenient times: weddings, coronations, or whenever two mortals were having a particularly juicy argument about whose goat had the shinier coat. Just imagine, you’re screaming at your neighbor, and suddenly an owl the size of Saturn stares down at you with burning amber eyes. It’s the kind of thing that makes you immediately reconsider your priorities — or soil your toga. Yet it was not mere chaos. There was intent in those wings. The owl was a living paradox: playful but grim, whimsical but deadly serious. It told jokes in hoots that mortals never understood but laughed at anyway because they were afraid not to. And always, always, there was that feeling — that if the owl wanted to, it could snuff out entire galaxies with a casual blink. It rarely did, of course, but legends whisper of one night when a civilization grew too arrogant, building spires so high they scratched the owl’s belly feathers. Offended, the owl flapped once — just once — and the entire empire became stardust. The moral? Don’t touch the owl. Or its belly. But for all its ominous presence, it was strangely generous with mortals. Travelers claimed that if you lit a fire under the northern lights, the owl would swoop down and drop a single glowing feather at your feet. These feathers, infused with cosmic wisdom, were said to make the bearer clever, lucky, or tragically sarcastic. Kings used them to outwit rivals, witches wove them into cloaks that shimmered like galaxies, and common folk tucked them under pillows to dream of things they had no business knowing. A single feather could rewrite destinies, and yet the owl scattered them like breadcrumbs across the void, half amusement, half test. “Let’s see what they do with this one,” it probably thought, sipping a metaphorical cosmic espresso. Of course, not every feather was a blessing. Some carried truths too sharp to hold. A fisherman once found one glowing on the beach, tucked it into his hat, and immediately understood that his wife’s “book club” was actually code for meeting a handsome sailor. Another feather fell to a philosopher, who upon touching it, realized he was wrong about absolutely everything he had ever published, including that bit about triangles being sacred. He drank himself into legend and became a constellation shaped vaguely like a man face-palming. And then there was the feather that nearly ended the universe. It fell into the lap of a wandering bard — a joker, trickster, and part-time lover of far too many people. The bard strummed it across their harp strings, thinking it would make a fun party trick, only to discover the feather sang back. Not just any song, but the true song of the cosmos: a melody so ancient and powerful that stars leaned in to listen, black holes swayed, and time itself hiccupped. For one dazzling night, every creature in existence dreamed the same dream — a dream of the owl’s eyes, endless and terrifying, blinking in slow rhythm to the song. Some woke laughing. Others woke screaming. But all woke knowing one thing: the owl was not simply a bird. It was the page-turner of reality, deciding which chapters continued and which were set aflame. And when the dream ended, mortals looked to the sky and swore they heard the owl laughing. A low, rumbling hoot that shook the stars loose and rolled them across the firmament like dice. Because perhaps the greatest joke of all was this: Wisdom doesn’t make the universe less dangerous. It just makes you aware of how ridiculous it all is. From that night forward, the owl was no longer just a legend. It was a god of paradox, humor, and looming dread. And whether mortals liked it or not, they were part of its comedy act. Because everyone knows, when an owl that big is running the show, you don’t argue about the script. You just hope you’re not cast as the fool… unless, of course, that’s the role it wanted you to play all along. The Last Hoot The trouble with cosmic owls is that they never really leave you alone. Once you’ve heard their hoot in your dreams, you carry it forever, like a tattoo etched on the marrow of your bones. Mortals tried to move on after the Night of Feathers and Fire, but the owl’s presence lingered. Farmers swore their crops grew in time with the rhythm of its wings. Sailors charted entire voyages based on where its feathers drifted down. Even lovers whispered vows under its glow, convinced the owl was some kind of feathery priest, silently officiating weddings with ominous approval. But the owl had grown restless. You see, wisdom is a heavy burden, and laughter — even cosmic, bone-shaking laughter — can only carry so much of it. The owl knew things it wished it didn’t. It knew which stars would implode next. It knew that galaxies flirted with each other, colliding in cataclysmic bursts of light and heartbreak. It knew every secret whispered in the void, from gods’ betrayals to mortals’ half-baked excuses. It knew that in the end, wisdom isn’t a gift. It’s a curse that makes you watch the same joke replay forever, without the mercy of forgetting the punchline. So one evening, when the veil of night was as black as unspilled ink, the owl decided to tell the truth. Not a feather-truth, not a riddle-truth, but the truth wholecloth. It descended on a mountain where a thousand mortals had gathered, hoping for blessings, prophecies, or maybe a free glowing feather they could pawn. The sky split open as its wings unfurled, each feather trailing galaxies. Its eyes glowed with the intensity of twin suns undergoing midlife crises. And then it hooted — one long, rolling sound that cracked valleys and rattled ribcages. The mortals clutched their ears, expecting doom. Instead, words filled the air, woven in the vibration of its call. “You want wisdom?” the owl thundered. “Fine. Here it is. The universe is not a plan. It’s not even a story. It’s a badly timed joke told by a drunk god at a party that never ends. You are not chosen. You are not doomed. You are not special. You are… hilariously temporary.” Gasps erupted. Some laughed, some wept, some tried to sell pamphlets immediately declaring themselves prophets of the owl’s gospel. But the owl wasn’t done. It leaned closer, eyes blazing with humor and sorrow. “The only wisdom worth having,” it continued, “is to know when to laugh at your own insignificance. You are stardust with opinions. Don’t take yourself so seriously.” It would have been a perfect mic-drop moment, except the owl didn’t use mics. It used feathers. And as if on cue, it shook itself like a wet dog and loosed a storm of radiant plumes. They fell across mountains, rivers, kingdoms, and oceans, each one burning with cosmic fire. Entire generations would find those feathers and make of them what they willed — weapons, poems, lullabies, or just very expensive hats. Some would gain insight; others would be driven mad. But all would carry a piece of the owl’s truth, whether they wanted it or not. And then, satisfied — or perhaps exhausted — the owl ascended into the black, wings blotting out constellations as it soared higher and higher until it vanished. The stars returned, shy and blinking, as though embarrassed to have been part of the whole spectacle. Mortals stood in stunned silence, clutching glowing feathers and realizing, for the first time, that the world was both funnier and more terrifying than they had ever dared admit. In the years that followed, new religions sprang up. Some worshipped the owl as the Harbinger of Doom. Others painted it as a drunken cosmic trickster. And a small but loud cult insisted the owl was simply a massive, interdimensional chicken that had gotten lost. The owl, of course, didn’t correct them. Why would it? Let mortals argue; it had better things to do — like rearranging quasars into rude hand gestures or teaching comets how to whistle. And yet… sometimes, on the quietest nights, travelers swore they heard it again: a single, distant hoot rolling through the void, equal parts chuckle and warning. They said it meant the owl was watching, waiting, and maybe — just maybe — writing new material for the next cosmic comedy set. After all, the owl had made one thing very clear: the joke never ends. And we’re all part of the punchline. So remember the lesson of Nebula-Winged Wisdom. Don’t lick the wrong star. Don’t take yourself too seriously. And if a galaxy-sized owl looks you dead in the eye and hoots? Just laugh. Trust me, it’s safer that way.     Bring Nebula-Winged Wisdom Into Your World Now you can capture the legend and laughter of the cosmic owl in your own space. Whether you want a bold framed print to command attention on your wall, a luminous metal print that glimmers like starlight, or a playful jigsaw puzzle that lets you piece together the owl’s cosmic mystery, there’s a version of this story waiting for you. For comfort seekers, wrap yourself in the soft glow of the cosmos with a cozy fleece blanket, or add a whimsical accent to your favorite chair with a vibrant throw pillow. Each piece brings the lore of Nebula-Winged Wisdom into your home — a reminder that wisdom, humor, and a touch of cosmic chaos can live right alongside you. Because sometimes, the best kind of wisdom is the one you can frame, cuddle, or even build feather by feather.

por Bill Tiepelman

Squeaky Clean Scales

The Bath Time Rebellion Dragons, as you may know, are not typically creatures of hygiene. They’re more “roll in ashes and singe your eyebrows” than “minty fresh and sparkling clean.” But then there was Crispin, the hatchling with scales the color of caramelized sugar and an expression permanently stuck between “evil mastermind” and “gleeful toddler on a sugar rush.” Today, Crispin had declared war… on dirt. Or maybe it was soap. The jury was still out. It all began when his keeper, a half-asleep wizard named Marvin, tried to dunk Crispin in a copper basin full of bubbles. “You’ll enjoy it!” Marvin promised, stirring the frothy water like he was mixing a witch’s brew. Crispin, however, was unconvinced. Bath time had always been a source of great drama in the lair—tantrums, tail-thrashing, and one incident where the curtains had to be replaced because the hatchling had tried to flee mid-suds and accidentally set them ablaze. But then Crispin spotted something—bubbles. Shiny, rainbow-glass globes floating upward, popping with tiny kisses of sound. His pupils widened. His wings twitched. And before Marvin could lecture him about soap-to-scale ratios, Crispin lunged straight into the tub with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for bacon-wrapped griffin wings. He erupted out of the foam like a champagne cork, sending suds flying in every direction. Marvin sputtered, soaked, and muttered something about “regretting his life choices.” Crispin, meanwhile, was in ecstasy. He discovered the joy of clapping his tiny claws together and making bubbles leap like startled pixies. He practiced blowing on them, which resulted in singed froth and one very offended rubber ducky. His reflection warped and shimmered across each bubble’s surface, turning his grin into monstrous, goofy caricatures of himself—something he found absolutely hilarious. For once, the little terror wasn’t interested in setting things on fire, hoarding shiny objects, or gnawing on Marvin’s spellbooks. He was just… celebrating the sheer miracle of soap. And in that moment, Marvin, dripping and annoyed, realized something profound. Life wasn’t always about conquering towers or memorizing spells or repairing scorch marks on the ceiling. Sometimes, life was about watching a dragon discover joy in a bubble bath. Crispin wasn’t just squeaky clean—he was teaching Marvin that delight can be found in the simplest, sudsiest corners of existence. Still, Marvin prayed fervently that Crispin wouldn’t sneeze while submerged in foam. Nothing says “spiritual life lesson ruined” quite like igniting an entire bath’s worth of bubbles in a single fiery hiccup. The Suds Uprising By the time Marvin had mopped up the first tidal wave of foam, Crispin had gone full renegade. The dragonling discovered that when he slapped his tail just right, he could send geysers of suds rocketing into the air like celebratory fireworks. He shrieked with laughter, spraying the walls with wet streaks of soap and bubbles that clung to the ceiling like glistening cobwebs. It was less “bath time” and more “foam-fueled riot.” Marvin, towel draped around his shoulders like a defeated gladiator, sighed. “You’re supposed to be a fearsome beast one day, Crispin. You’ll terrorize villages, scorch kingdoms, demand tribute.” He waved a soggy hand at the dragonling. “Not… this.” Crispin, of course, ignored him. He was busy building a bubble crown. Each sphere balanced precariously on his spiky horns, creating an absurd, regal headpiece that would’ve made any monarch jealous. He puffed out his tiny chest, narrowed his eyes in mock seriousness, and gave Marvin a look that clearly translated to: Bow before your Squeaky Majesty. “Oh no,” Marvin muttered, massaging his temples. “He’s invented monarchy.” The rebellion escalated quickly. Crispin discovered that he could bite the bubbles without consequence. POP. POP. POP. He snapped at them like a cat in a sunbeam chasing dust motes, wings flapping wildly. Soon, he’d cleared a small patch of airspace, then leapt out of the tub—suds still dripping from his belly—declaring himself Champion of All Things That Burst. He roared (more of a squeaky hiccup, but the sentiment was there) and promptly slipped on the tile, landing in a splat that sent Marvin into uncontrollable laughter. For once, the old wizard wasn’t annoyed—he was cackling like a drunk at a comedy tavern, because seeing a dragon crown himself with soap bubbles only to skid across the bathroom like a greased piglet was just… priceless. And then came the philosophy, as bath-time chaos often inspires. Marvin realized that Crispin wasn’t just rebelling against dirt—he was rebelling against the expectation of being serious. Society told dragons to be terrifying, wizards to be wise, and bubbles to pop silently without purpose. But Crispin was rewriting the script. He was bratty, yes—he dunked his head into the suds and blew out his nostrils like a fire-breathing walrus—but he was also showing that joy was an act of defiance. To laugh at the absurdity of it all was to thumb your nose (or snout) at the very weight of existence. “Lesson of the day,” Marvin announced to no one, raising a dripping finger like a lecturer. “If life hands you soap, crown yourself King of Bubbles.” Crispin rewarded him by spitting foam directly into his beard. Marvin sputtered, but even he had to admit—it was well-deserved. The bubbles had become something greater: not just toys, not just soap, but symbols. Crispin wasn’t merely playing—he was staging a revolution of simplicity. Each bubble was a tiny manifesto, iridescent declarations that screamed: we are fleeting but fabulous! And though Marvin knew this was probably just his sleep-deprived brain overanalyzing, he couldn’t help but feel moved. The bratty little beast was teaching him to celebrate things that lasted mere seconds before popping. That maybe the point wasn’t permanence—it was the sparkle before the end. Crispin, meanwhile, had decided to test the boundaries of physics. He flapped his wings furiously, scattering soapy droplets like rain across the room, and tried to take flight. The effort launched him a glorious six inches into the air before gravity yanked him back into the tub with a KER-SPLASH that flooded half the floor. The dragonling poked his head out of the foam, eyes gleaming, grin wide, and let out a satisfied burble. Marvin just stared at the flooded chaos around him and whispered: “This… is my life now.” And yet, he wasn’t angry. He was weirdly grateful. Grateful for the mess, the noise, the bratty energy of a creature too young to care about dignity. Crispin was chaos, yes—but he was also a reminder that even wizards needed to loosen their robes once in a while and laugh at the suds sticking to their noses. Life, Marvin realized, is basically one long bubble bath: foamy, ridiculous, and gone too soon. The Gospel of the Bubble Dragon By now the bathroom looked less like a place of hygiene and more like a battlefield where the gods of Foam and Chaos had fought an epic war. The walls dripped with suds, the ceiling wore a frothy halo, and Marvin’s slippers had vanished somewhere under a swamp of soapy water. Crispin, however, was unfazed. He perched proudly on the rim of the copper tub, suds clinging to his horns, tail flicking like a metronome set to “trouble,” eyes gleaming with bratty triumph. He had conquered bath time, rewritten the rules, and crowned himself emperor of everything bubbly. Marvin sat cross-legged on the wet floor, soaked to his knobby knees, beard sparkling with soap residue. He had officially given up trying to control the situation. Instead, he leaned back against the wall and watched, part of him wondering how his life had come to this, another part weirdly thrilled to witness the spectacle. Somewhere between the suds in his ear and the dragon spit in his beard, the old wizard realized he’d stumbled into something rare: a teaching moment. Not the kind found in dusty grimoires or scrawled on parchment scrolls—no, this was the messy, hilarious gospel according to Crispin. The dragonling cleared his throat (a dramatic little “hrrrk” noise that sounded suspiciously like a toddler about to demand apple juice) and began strutting along the tub’s edge like a king addressing his court. His tiny claws tapped the rim, his wings flicked theatrically, and his bubble crown wobbled but somehow stayed intact. Marvin swore the little beast was giving a speech. “Pop, pop, pop,” Crispin chirped, punctuating each sound by biting at bubbles that drifted too close. Marvin couldn’t translate dragonling chatter exactly, but the meaning felt obvious: Life is short, so chomp it while it’s shiny. The more Marvin watched, the more the philosophy unfolded. Crispin splashed deliberately, soaking himself anew, as if to say: Cleanliness is temporary, but joy is renewable. He piled foam into ridiculous sculptures—mountains, castles, what looked suspiciously like Marvin’s bald head—and then gleefully smashed them, cackling with dragon giggles. Marvin found himself laughing too, realizing Crispin was showing him the joy of impermanence. You didn’t cling to bubbles. You played with them, loved them, and let them go. There was no tragedy in their popping—only the memory of sparkle. Of course, Crispin’s bratty streak wasn’t about to let the evening stay purely philosophical. Once he sensed he had Marvin’s attention, the dragonling doubled down on the mischief. He leapt from the tub with a wild squeal, wings flapping, and landed squarely on Marvin’s chest. The impact knocked the wizard backward into the puddled floor with a splash. Marvin wheezed, “I’m too old for this!” but Crispin just curled up smugly on his robe, leaving streaks of soap and little claw prints all over the fabric like a wet signature. Then came the grand finale: Crispin’s fire sneeze. Marvin saw it coming too late—the dragonling’s nose crinkled, his eyes crossed, his cheeks puffed. “No, no, no!” Marvin shouted, scrambling to grab a towel. But the sneeze erupted with a WHOOSH, igniting a cluster of bubbles into a brief, glorious fireball that shimmered across the bathroom like a dragon’s disco ball. Miraculously, nothing burned. Instead, the flames fizzled into rainbow smoke that smelled faintly of lavender soap. Marvin collapsed into helpless laughter, wheezing, tears streaming down his face. Even Crispin, startled, blinked once before bursting into shrieking giggles. It was official: bath time had become both rave and sermon. Later, when the chaos subsided, Marvin sat with Crispin curled up in a nest of towels. The hatchling, worn out from the suds rebellion, let out a little snore that sounded like a hiccup wrapped in purrs. Marvin stroked the damp scales on his head, reflecting. He’d always thought wisdom came from solemn rituals, from silence, from discipline. But tonight, wisdom had come in the form of bubbles, bratty tantrums, slippery floors, and a dragon that refused to do anything without making it fun. And maybe—just maybe—that was the greater lesson: that joy itself is an act of rebellion against a world too obsessed with being serious all the time. “Squeaky clean scales,” Marvin whispered with a chuckle, glancing at the glistening hatchling in his lap. “You’re not just clean, Crispin. You’re holy. A prophet of play, a tiny philosopher of foam.” He shook his head and smiled. “And you’re also the reason I’ll need to buy a mop.” Somewhere in his sleep, Crispin burbled happily, a bubble popping on his nose. And Marvin, exhausted but oddly renewed, decided that the simple things—the bratty, goofy, messy, fleeting, soapy things—were the ones worth celebrating. After all, no kingdom, no spell, no treasure could rival the miracle of a dragon who found enlightenment in a bubble bath.     Epilogue: The Legend of Squeaky Clean Scales In the weeks that followed, Marvin noticed something strange. Crispin began demanding regular baths. Not because he cared about hygiene—his bratty grin made it clear he just wanted more bubble chaos—but because bath time had become ritual. Every splash, every crown of suds, every fire-sneeze into foam became part of the dragonling’s growing legend. Neighbors whispered that Marvin’s hatchling was not just any dragon, but a mystical beast who glowed brighter than treasure after a bubble scrub. Of course, the truth was far less glamorous. Crispin still slipped on tiles. He still spit soap into Marvin’s beard for fun. He still staged miniature rebellions against bedtime, vegetables, and anything that didn’t involve sparkle or snacks. But in the oddest way, the little creature had changed something fundamental. Marvin, once stoic and grumpy, now found himself chuckling in the market, buying lavender soap in bulk. He even started greeting people with the phrase: “Find your bubble and pop it proudly.” It confused the townsfolk, but Marvin didn’t care—he had bubbles in his beard and joy in his chest. As for Crispin, he wore his title proudly: Squeaky Clean Scales. A dragon who would one day grow massive wings and fiery breath, but who, for now, was perfectly content to be small, goofy, and dripping with foam. His kingdom wasn’t of gold or jewels—it was of laughter, suds, and life lessons disguised as bratty fun. And in some quiet corner of the world, where dragons and wizards and bubbles all existed together, the simple miracle of bath time became a reminder that sometimes the greatest magic isn’t fire or flight—it’s joy. Pure, ridiculous, fleeting joy.     Bring the Bubble Dragon Home If Crispin the hatchling made you smile, why not let his bubbly antics brighten your own space? Squeaky Clean Scales is more than a story—it’s a celebration of joy, silliness, and life’s simplest pleasures. And now you can carry that magic into your everyday world with beautifully crafted products featuring this whimsical artwork. Dress up your walls with a stunning Framed Print or a luminous Acrylic Print—perfect conversation starters that capture every bubble and sparkle in vivid detail. Or make bath time legendary with a playful Shower Curtain that turns any bathroom into Crispin’s kingdom of foam. For cozy nights, wrap yourself in the warmth of a Fleece Blanket, or bring the dragonling’s bratty charm on the go with a versatile Tote Bag. Each piece is crafted to celebrate the joy, play, and laughter that Crispin reminds us to embrace. Because sometimes, the greatest treasures aren’t gold or fire—they’re bubbles, giggles, and the reminder to celebrate life’s little sparks.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Leviathan of Crimson Fins

The Contract, the Boat, and the Bad Idea I signed the contract the way every bad adventure begins: with a cheap pen, a good whiskey, and a promise I absolutely should not have believed. The client wanted “one clean, frame-worthy, trophy-shot of a sea dragon breaching at golden hour—preferably with the fins backlit so the crimson pops.” In other words, they wanted the impossible. Also in other words, they wanted what I live for. Our boat—if you could call a grudging pile of bolted-together aluminum a boat—was The Indecision, and she creaked like a pirate’s knees. The crew was a handpicked circus. There was Mae, a marine biologist who moonlights as a sarcastic influencer (“Like and subscribe if you survive,” she said, deadpan, every time the deck tilted). There was Gus, a retired lighthouse keeper who’d seen enough storms to tsk at thunder and call it “atmosphere.” There was Scupper, a cat who never paid rent and absolutely ran the place. And there was me—the photographer who chases the kind of leviathan artwork that makes people mortgage walls to hang it on. We idled over a trench known on maps as the Cerulean Drop and in sailor gossip as Don’t. It was a bruise in the ocean, a perfect throat where currents swallowed ships, rumors, and occasionally an overeager documentary crew. My drones skimmed the waves like patient gulls, lenses hungry. The sky was bleached linen; the water was that heavy, iron-blue that means something ancient is thinking beneath it. “What are we even calling this thing?” Mae asked, fussing with a sensor array that looked suspiciously like a cookie tin strapped to a car battery. “Dragon? Serpent? Very large ‘nope’?” “The Leviathan of Crimson Fins,” I said, because you name the monster or it names you. “Ocean monster, apex myth, patron saint of bad decisions. And if we do this right, we turn it into fantasy wall art people whisper about from across the room.” Gus spat neatly into the scuppers. “You want whispering? Put a price on it.” Scupper meowed, which in cat means, you’re all idiots but I’m morally obligated to supervise. We set our trap, which was really more of an invitation. A crate of brined mackerel hung off the stern on a cable, swaying like a greasy chandelier. Mae swore by the scent profile. “Not bait,” she said, “just… an alert.” Sure. And my camera was “just” a high-speed confession booth where reality blurts out details in 1/8000th of a second. The trench breathed. The first signal was the light—gone flat, like a stage waiting for an actor. The second was heat: a soft exhale pushing up from thirty fathoms, frosting our lenses with humidity. The third was the sound: a distant churning, like cathedral doors grinding open under the sea. “Heads up,” Mae said, voice suddenly clean and professional. “Pressure shift.” Gus strapped in. “If it asks for our Wi-Fi, say no.” I checked the rig: twin stabilized gimbals; two primary cameras with glass fast enough to steal light from the gods; one custom housing that laughed at salt spray; and a backup sensor because I am unlucky, not stupid. I locked the focus plane where water becomes miracle—right at the skin of the sea, where everything important happens fast. On the monitor, my forward drone caught something like weather made of scales. Not a shape yet—more a rumor of geometry, patterns tiling and untangling, teal deepening to indigo, then flashing to ember as if a forge had opened underwater. “We’ve got movement,” I said. My voice did not shake. It quivered tastefully. The cable rattled. The mackerel crate jittered as if nervous about its life choices. The ocean lifted—not in a wave, but in a shrug—as if something vast were moving its shoulders beneath the surface. Mae inhaled. “Oh… wow.” I’ve seen whales breach like towns rising into the sky. I’ve watched a waterspout turn a horizon into a zipper. I’ve never seen intent like this. The sea dragon didn’t so much emerge as arrive—with the unbothered confidence of a storm or a billionaire. A horned brow cut the surface. Then an eye: gold, patient, and very much not impressed with us. The head that followed was architected in brutality, scaled in mosaics of copper-green and slate, every contour slick with the wet clarity that makes studio lights jealous. “Record. Record. Record.” I heard my own voice go stupid with awe. Shutter clatter became music. The hyper-realistic dragon in my viewfinder looked less like a legend and more like the ocean had decided to grow teeth and unionize. The dorsal fins surfaced next—those famous crimson fins—not simply red, but layered: ember at the roots, blood-orange in the membranes, and sunset right at the edges, where backlight turned them electric. The water loved those fins. It banded to them. It worshipped them in halos of spray. The droplets hung midair long enough to pose. Gus muttered, “That’s a church right there.” Mae was already taking readings with the kind of grin that makes tenure committees nervous. “Thermal spikes. Electromagnetic flutter. And… pheromone traces? Oh, that’s not great.” “Not great how?” I asked, eyes welded to the viewfinder, fingers dancing the exposure like a safecracker. “As in, we may have rung the dinner bell for two of them.” Scupper chose that moment to hiss at something no one could see. Cats always get the trailer before the movie. The dragon turned—slowly, with the bored drama of a queen acknowledging peasants—and noticed our crate. It extended a whiskered tongue, black as ship rope, and tasted the air with a sound like a violin string being plucked by thunder. Then it laughed. I swear to all six gods of the Gulf, it laughed—just a rasp, a chuckle made of old anchors and older appetites—but laughter, all the same. My camera caught that look: the cruel amusement, the lazy competence. The ocean guardian had decided we were entertainment. “Okay,” I said, “new plan: we don’t die, and we get a cover shot that sells out a thousand limited editions.” “Your plan is just adjectives,” Gus said. “Adjectives pay the fuel bill.” The dragon flowed closer, scales ticking like coins in a jar. Up this near, the details became a problem. There were too many: micro-ridges, healed scars, salt crystals clinging to the armored plates, tiny lichens (or were those symbiotic glow-worms?) threading faint bioluminescent veins through the membranes of those red sails. My lens, brave soldier, held the line. Then the ocean dropped three feet as something else displaced it. Mae’s monitors screamed. The surface behind the first dragon bulged, then fractured, as if the trench were spitting out a second opinion. “Told you,” Mae whispered. “Pheromones. Either a rival or a—” “Mate?” I finished, trying very hard not to picture how dragons date. “I am not licensed for that documentary.” Gus pointed with a hand that had steadied a lighthouse through hurricanes. “You two can argue taxonomy later. That one’s looking at our engine. That one’s looking at our camera. And neither of them blinks like something that respects warranties.” I toggled the burst rate to indecent and framed the shot of my life: the first dragon rising, jaws open in a roar that showed a cathedral of teeth; the second a darker ghost pushing the sea aside in a crown of foam; the horizon tilting like a stage set; a sky abruptly crowded with gulls who’d read the script and decided to improvise exits. Somewhere inside the panic, a part of me—the greedy, artistic, unfathomably stubborn part—did the math. If I waited one more beat, right as the primary broke full breach, the crimson would hit the sun at the perfect angle and the water would pearl along the fin like diamonds. That was the difference between a good shot and a print that makes rooms go quiet. “Hold…” I breathed, to the boat, the crew, the camera, the universe. “Hold for glory.” The ocean obeyed. It coiled, tensed, and exploded. The Leviathan came up like a missile wrapped in biology, every line razor, every scale readable, every drop a gemstone. The roar hit us a fraction later, a freight train made of choir. The fin flared—a curtain of crimson fire—and the sun, bless her dramatic heart, lit it like stained glass. I took the shot. And that’s when the second dragon surfaced directly off our stern, close enough to fog the lens with its breath, and gently—almost politely—bit the mackerel crate in half. The Shot That Cost a Hull The sound of the crate snapping was less “crunch” and more “financial catastrophe.” Half the bait disappeared into a jaw lined with teeth that could rent apartments in San Francisco. The other half bobbed sadly against the stern as if to say, you tried. Scupper leapt onto the cabin roof with the agility of someone who hadn’t co-signed a death wish and announced in cat-language, your deductible does not cover this. Mae’s instruments lit up like Vegas. “EM surge! Hull pressure spike! Oh, wow. That’s not physics anymore, that’s improv.” “Less readings, more surviving!” Gus barked, unspooling a line and clipping into the mast like he was back in a storm. “She’s gonna roll us if she sneezes.” The first dragon rose higher, body arcing with impossible grace, like a skyscraper pretending to be a fish. My lens was still glued to it. Water peeled off in sheets, catching the sun and painting rainbows across the fins. Every photo I snapped was pure fantasy dragon poster gold—images that galleries would bid for like hungry pirates. Every photo was also another nail in the coffin of our poor little boat. The second dragon wasn’t so much jealous as… practical. It inspected us with an eye the color of molten bronze. Then it tested our engine with a flick of its tongue. The engine, being mortal and carbureted, sputtered like a kid caught smoking. We weren’t moving unless the dragons approved. We had become their Netflix. Mae clutched her sensor tin. “They’re… they’re talking.” “Talking?” I said, too busy chimping my shots like an idiot to be alarmed. “Do we want subtitles?” “Not words. Pulses. They’re pinging each other with bioelectric bursts. One is dominant. The other’s… negotiating?” She paused, frowned, then added with dry menace: “Or foreplay. Hard to tell.” Gus muttered, “I didn’t sign up for National Geographic After Dark.” The boat lurched sideways as the second dragon nuzzled the stern with its snout. I know people romanticize sea monsters. They imagine scales like armor and faces like statues. Up close, though? It smelled like old kelp and ozone, and the hide wasn’t smooth at all—it was ridged, barnacled, scarred. History written in tissue. A camera lens makes it gorgeous. A human nose makes it survival horror. “Back it off!” Gus yelled, thumping the hull with a gaff hook like he was shooing a drunk walrus. “This tub ain’t rated for dragon cuddles!” I fired my shutter again and again, ignoring the sting of salt spray in my eyes. These were the epic sea creature shots that would hang over fireplaces, that would anchor collectors’ living rooms, that would make curators whisper who the hell got this close? I was already imagining the fine art catalogues: ‘The Leviathan of Crimson Fins,’ limited edition of 50, signed and numbered, comes with a notarized affidavit that the photographer was an idiot with good reflexes. Mae’s monitors screamed. “Guys! Electromagnetic discharge building in the dorsal fins. If this thing sneezes lightning, our cameras are toast.” “Or,” I said, framing the perfect shot of backlit crimson membranes swelling with static, “our cameras are legendary.” “You’re deranged.” “Visionary,” I corrected. The first dragon bellowed. The sound slapped the air itself into submission. Birds detonated from the sky in every direction. The horizon staggered. My stern drone caught the shot: two dragons in the same frame, one rearing with fins blazing like stained glass, the other circling close to our fragile deck, water hissing around its massive shoulders. A composition you could only get if you were suicidal or extremely lucky. I was both. Then the hull cracked. It wasn’t dramatic at first. Just a sound like ice fracturing on a winter lake. But every sailor knows that noise. It’s the universe whispering: you gambled too hard, kid. “We’re taking water!” Gus barked, already knee-deep in foam. He kicked the bilge pump awake, but it coughed like a smoker. “Ain’t gonna keep up if they keep hugging.” Mae looked up from her tin. “If they’re courting, this is the part where they display dominance.” “Define dominance,” I said, even though I knew. Oh, I knew. “Breaching duel,” she said flatly. “They’ll take turns leaping until one backs down. Guess what’s directly in their splash zone?” Scupper yowled, then retreated below deck, proving he was the smartest of us. The sea bulged again. One dragon plunged deep, dragging a wake that spun us sideways. The other rose, fins outspread like cathedral windows, then slammed down into the trench with a force that kicked our boat skyward. For one weightless moment I hung in the air, camera still clicking like an addict’s lighter, framing the impossible. Spray turned into shattered glass all around us. The horizon somersaulted. And then—inevitably—gravity collected its debt. We crashed back onto the sea with enough force to throw Gus across the deck. Mae screamed, not in fear, but in sheer scientific ecstasy. “Yes! YES! Data points! I’m going to publish so hard!” Water poured over the gunwales. My gear clanged. My cameras survived—miracle of miracles—but the boat was coughing its last prayers. The second dragon surfaced again, close enough to fog my lens with its steaming breath, and nudged us like a curious cat toy. Its eye locked on mine. Ancient. Playful. Predatory. And I realized in one sickening, thrilling instant: We weren’t observers anymore. We were part of the ritual. And the ritual wasn’t close to finished. The Baptism of Fools The boat was no longer a boat. It was a prop in somebody else’s opera. We bobbed in the froth between two dragons staging a thunderous love-hate courtship ritual, and every splash came with a side order of “there goes your insurance premium.” The first dragon, the one I’d already christened The Leviathan of Crimson Fins, launched into another breach that would’ve made Poseidon clap politely. It soared like a skyscraper in rebellion, fins ablaze with sunlight. I caught the exact frame: water exploding, teeth gleaming, scales refracting every color a paint store could dream up. A shot worth careers. A shot worth drowning for. Which was convenient, because drowning seemed imminent. The second dragon, not to be outdone, coiled under our stern and erupted sideways. The wave it threw wasn’t a wave at all—it was a wet apocalypse. The Indecision lifted, twisted, and for a few glorious seconds we were flying, boat and all. Gus roared curses so colorful they probably offended Poseidon personally. Mae clutched her tin and screamed, “YES! MORE DATA!” like she was mainlining chaos. Scupper yowled from the cabin in tones that translated roughly to, I did not vote for this cruise line. My cameras clattered around me as I straddled the deck, clicking wildly, chasing glory while the ocean demanded sacrifice. I knew these frames would be legendary dragon artwork, but in the back of my head another thought sharpened: don’t let the SD cards die with you. The dragons circled each other, slamming the sea like dueling gods. Every pass painted the water with streaks of foam, every roar carved the air into panic. Their massive bodies locked in spirals that dragged whirlpools open beneath them. The trench below seethed. The pressure shifted so hard my ears rang. The ocean wasn’t water anymore—it was stage lighting for monsters. And then they both went still. Not calm. Still. Hanging in the water, fins flared, eyes glowing with the judgment of creatures who’ve seen continents drown and continents rise again. The silence was worse than the noise. Even the gulls had stopped fleeing. For a heartbeat, the world forgot how to breathe. Then, as if choreographed, both dragons exhaled jets of steam so hot they scorched the salt from the air. Mae’s instruments fried in her hands with a sad little pop. Gus crossed himself with one hand while jamming a bilge pump lever with the other. Scupper padded up, sat in the middle of the chaos, and calmly licked his paw. Cats are contractually immune to existential dread. The dragons’ heads dipped toward us—closer, closer—until two golden eyes the size of portholes stared directly into mine. I swear they could see every stupid decision I’d ever made, every bill I’d ducked, every ex I’d ghosted. They knew I was here for the picture, not the wisdom. And then—just as my bladder politely suggested we evacuate—they blinked, as if to say: Fine. You’re amusing. You may leave. Both leviathans dived at once, slipping back into the abyss with a grace that mocked gravity itself. The sea rolled over their passing, flattening into a bruised calm. No trace left. No evidence. Just me, three lunatics, one damp cat, and a hull screaming for retirement. Mae finally broke the silence. “So, uh… round two tomorrow?” Gus threw his cap at her. “Round two my ass. This boat’s held together with duct tape and spite!” Scupper sneezed, unimpressed. I sat back, waterlogged, shaking, delirious with the high of it all. My cameras had survived. The cards were full. And when I flicked through the previews, my breath caught. The shots were everything I’d dreamed of: crimson fins lit like stained glass, teeth framed against the horizon, sprays of diamonds frozen midair. Proof that ocean mythology isn’t dead—it’s just very picky about photographers. I grinned through salt-stung lips. “Ladies and gentlemen, we just baptized ourselves in legend.” “And almost died doing it,” Mae muttered. “Details,” I said. “Adjectives pay the fuel bill.” Behind us, the horizon brooded, as if waiting for the next round. I didn’t care. For now, I had the crown jewel: The Leviathan of Crimson Fins, captured in all its feral majesty. People would whisper about these prints, hang them like relics, buy them as if owning one meant you’d faced the ocean’s oldest trick and lived. Which, against every odd, we had. Of course, the boat was sinking, but that’s another invoice.     Bring the Legend Home “The Leviathan of Crimson Fins” wasn’t just an adventure—it became an image worthy of immortality. Now you can bring that same feral majesty into your own space. Whether you want a bold centerpiece or a subtle reminder of oceanic legend, the Leviathan translates beautifully into curated art products designed to inspire awe every time you see them. For collectors and décor lovers, the framed print or acrylic print offer museum-quality presentation, capturing every crisp detail of the dragon’s scales and fins. For those who like to puzzle over mysteries (literally), the jigsaw puzzle lets you relive the chaos of the breach one piece at a time. On the go? Carry a touch of myth with you using the tote bag, perfect for daily adventures, or keep your essentials in a sleek zippered pouch that turns practicality into legend. Each product is more than just merchandise—it’s a piece of the story, a way to hold onto the wild thrill of witnessing a sea dragon rise from the deep. Own your part of the adventure today.

por Bill Tiepelman

Guardian of the Painted Feathers

The Night the Forest Blinked The forest didn’t go dark; it went quiet—the kind of hush that makes even the moths put on slippers. High on a braid of oak limbs, the Guardian of the Painted Feathers opened her eyes, and the night opened with her. Her name—rarely spoken, because respect doesn’t always need syllables—was Seraphine Quill, an owl whose plumage held more color than a market full of unruly scarves. Blues that remembered rain. Ambers with opinions. Petal-pink sighs. She was a woodland guardian with the posture of a librarian and the patience of a saint who drinks espresso. Tonight, the silence had a shape. Something was sipping saturation from the world, the way a bored god might swirl a spoon in the teacup of creation. Seraphine heard it before she saw it: that thin sound, like a violin string tuned to “uh-oh.” She rotated her head in a slow, scandalized arc—owls are basically swivel chairs with talons—and let her gaze travel the understory. The enchanted forest breathed in patterns: fern-ripple, blossom-rustle, fox-sigh, cricket-one-two-three. But beyond the chrysanthemums and the gossiping mushrooms (who, frankly, shouldn’t be trusted with anything you wouldn’t spray with vinegar), a gray smear drifted between the trunks. “Absolutely not,” Seraphine murmured. Her voice was low and velvet and contained enough authority to make a wolf apologize to its shadow. She dropped from the branch and rode a column of cool air, her colorful feathers catching star-light like tiny stained-glass windows. Flowers turned as she passed—flirting, mostly. The peonies were hopeless. She landed near the old root where the forest kept its secrets. A fox emerged, eyes bright with the kind of anxiety only foxes and human poets truly cultivate. “Guardian,” he said, tail doing the nervous metronome. “The color thief is back. I chased it, but it kept… not being.” Seraphine clicked her beak once, which in owl language meant: I believe you; also, hydrate. “You did well, Vesper. Go home. Guard your den and your kits. No heroics. Leave the dramatics to the bird with better eyeliner.” Vesper squinted at her. “Is it weird that I find you reassuring and vaguely terrifying?” “Correct on both counts.” She fluffed her chest and every hue sharpened, like the forest took a breath and remembered its opinions. This was Seraphine’s first gift: nocturnal protector of saturation, conductor of chroma. Where she blinked, colors woke up and behaved like themselves. The gray smear crept closer, as if curious, as if trying on the idea of existing. The air cooled in that specific way that makes you suddenly aware of your knuckles. Where the smear passed, violets turned to etiquette-violating beige. A fern folded its own memo and forgot what it wanted to say. “Name yourself,” Seraphine called, voice ringing against bark and moon. “And if you don’t have a name, darling, that’s your first problem.” No answer. Only that violin-string sound, a whine pitched at the uneasy place behind the eyes. The smear reached for a cluster of late roses, and the petals dulled like old coins. Seraphine stepped forward, one talon at a time, and the roses blushed back to themselves. She wasn’t just blocking the thing; she was repainting the night. From the left came a flutter of chaos: three moths in formalwear, the sort who subscribe to niche magazines. “Guardian!” they chorused. “There’s a leak in the moonlight two clearings over; we are beside ourselves and we do not have enough selves for this.” “Tell the bats to hang tight and practice their vowels,” Seraphine said. “We’ll fix the leak after we plug this vacuum cleaner of gloom.” She turned back to the smear. “I know you,” she said softly. “You’re the Unraveling—entropy with social anxiety.” The smear quivered, then tried to be five inches to the right. Seraphine’s feathers shimmered—turquoise slipping into citrine, aubergine into ember—until the owl art print the world would one day hang on a gallery wall felt like it had been born in that moment. She reached into herself for her second gift, one she used sparingly because it tended to attract myths: the voice that convinced shadows to tell the truth. “Why do you eat color?” she asked. “Speak, little hunger.” It didn’t speak, exactly. It threw images at her: a rain-soaked palette left out overnight; a child’s crayon snapped in an argument with gravity; a blank page that had never been brave. Seraphine tasted the loneliness in it—the awkward, shy ache of things that never learned how to be vibrant without apology. She softened. It’s hard to stay mad when the monster turns out to be a diary that learned to walk. “Listen,” she said, wings mantling. “This forest needs every audacious shade it can muster. Saturation is a promise, not a crime. You can travel with me and learn hunger with manners, or I can put you in a jar labeled ‘Absolutely Not’ and bury you under the sassiest hydrangea in existence. Decide quickly.” The smear hesitated. From the branches above, a chorus of small minds—sparrows, finches, one judgmental wren—leaned in. Even the cicadas stopped crunching their existential chips. In that pause, Seraphine felt the forest teeter, like a teacup on the edge of a desk during an emphatic email. At her feet, the roses tested their own perfume as if to say, We’re rooting for you, dear; don’t make us display our thorns. A breeze crept in, tasting of mint and rumor, and lifted the fringe of Seraphine’s face like a crown considering its options. She took a breath, layered with pine and a whisper of thunder, and began the old work—the art older than art—the dance of keeping things bright. She moved in a slow circle around the smear, talons whispering on bark, voice low. “Repeat after me,” she coaxed. “I am not a void; I am a frame.” Something in the smear steadied. It gathered itself like a shy person in a thrift-store mirror and took on the faintest blush of color, as if courage were a pigment. A faint blue—one that remembered ponds—rippled across its edge. Seraphine nodded, the tilt small and queenly. Frames do not devour paintings; frames insist the painting be seen. Branches creaked above. The old oak—Elder Root, who slept like a landlord—spoke in a voice that sounded like contracts made with rain. “Guardian,” he rumbled, “does your mercy have room for what forgets itself?” “My mercy has room for the chronically uncertain,” Seraphine replied. “If it misbehaves, we’ll try consequences after compassion. That’s the sequence. Otherwise, what are we protecting—color, or dignity?” Elder Root considered, which took a number of centuries and also six seconds. “Proceed.” Seraphine leaned closer to the smear, warm and terrifying as a sunrise with great eyebrows. “Stay,” she commanded. “Learn. You will not sip a single shade without asking. You will send me a polite whisper for anything bolder than taupe. We begin with blues at dawn. The frogs will supervise; they’re bureaucrats at heart.” She lowered her voice. “And if you try nonsense, darling, I will turn you into a tasteful border around a fantasy forest tea menu and serve you chamomile forever.” The smear shivered. Then—miracle with a sheepish grin—it folded. Not gone, not defeated. Simply… outlined. A thin band of slate—now clearly a frame—stayed where it was placed, humming softly like a cat pretending it’s not purring. The air rushed back into itself. Colors sighed and went dramatic, as colors do when they realize they almost became a metaphor for austerity. Across the clearing, the chrysanthemums applauded with the modesty of fireworks. The moth trio lit a celebratory lantern that turned out to be a glowworm with feelings; apologies were made. Vesper the fox returned with a beleaguered vole and a pie made of blackberries and ambition. Someone struck up a cricket jazz standard. For a dangerous minute, the night felt like a party. Seraphine took her place on the branch again, a majestic owl painting made real, her vibrant feather detail pulsing like the heartbeat of the grove. She closed one eye, then the other, letting the scene filter through the wisdom between. The frame waited, obedient and a little proud. The forest breathed, saturated and brave. But peace is not the same as safety. A wind blew from the north—dry, broom-swept, carrying a smell like burnt promises. On the horizon, beyond the hills that wore the moon like a brooch, something rose that wasn’t a storm and wasn’t a mountain. It had architecture. It had ambition. It had lawyers. Seraphine’s claws tightened around the bark until the tree hummed comfort up to her bones. “Oh,” she said to the night, to the framed hunger, to the moths dusting their anxieties with glitter. “It’s one of those nights.” High above, an owl with painted plumage and a timetable of miracles opened both eyes. She lifted her head and let the moonlight show off. If the forest had to face what was coming, it would face it in full color, with extra sass and a hopeful heart. That, after all, is what guardians are for: not to keep the world from changing, but to make sure it changes without losing its palette. And from the north, the first note of the next trouble arrived—long, legal, off-key. The Committee of Acceptable Shades By dawn, Seraphine Quill had already given the smear its first lesson in responsible blueness. It went surprisingly well, once she bribed it with dew. But owls rarely have the luxury of lingering victories. Because by the time the second cricket rehearsal ended and Vesper had passed out from pie-related hubris, the north wind brought with it an entourage. They weren’t storms. They weren’t spirits. They were bureaucrats. Which is to say: worse. A thunder of parchment flapped into the clearing, pages bound by red ribbons, fluttering like the wings of a thousand passive-aggressive butterflies. And from that cyclone of clauses emerged the Committee of Acceptable Shades—tall, gangly silhouettes with clipboards where faces should be. Each clipboard bore a single rectangle of gray: flat, unyielding, and smug. Their leader’s rectangle read “Taupe, Standardized.” “Guardian,” the head figure intoned, its voice like two staplers mating. “You have been operating without a license to distribute vibrancy. All saturation above Pantone 3268-C must be surrendered immediately for recalibration. Non-compliance will result in monochrome sanctions.” The forest gasped. A violet fainted, a sunflower cursed under its breath. Even the glowworm that had been impersonating a lantern dimmed in horror. Seraphine fluffed her feathers until the dawn light ricocheted through her like stained glass at a rave. “Sanctions?” she said, sweet and sharp. “Darling, the only thing you’ll sanction here is your own relevance.” The fox, Vesper, rubbed sleep from his eyes and squinted at the clipboard-faces. “Wait, are those… lawyers?” “Worse,” Seraphine replied. “They’re design consultants.” The Committee advanced, clipboards glowing faintly with the power of overused Helvetica. The leader snapped its ribbon like a whip. “We offer a deal,” it said. “Surrender the unauthorized hues. You may keep beige, cream, and a very modest mint green if used only in moderation. Otherwise, we will strip your spectrum clean.” Seraphine blinked slowly. Owls are masters of the long blink—it’s like sarcasm made visual. “Beige?” she whispered. “Mint in moderation? You walk into my forest—the one I’ve bled starlight to protect—and you dare reduce it to a waiting room wall?” The Committee rustled nervously. One of the lesser silhouettes fumbled its papers and a faint splash of lavender slipped free before being recaptured. Seraphine saw it. The smear-turned-frame saw it. Even the moths saw it, though they pretended to be too sophisticated. She pounced on the slip like a cat in Prada heels. “There it is,” she declared. “Proof! You keep color for yourselves while rationing the rest of us like misers at a confetti party. Don’t preach balance when your clipboards bleed hypocrisy.” Gasps rippled through the undergrowth. The Committee faltered. For the first time, the forest felt the truth: that color rationing wasn’t order; it was theft disguised as neatness. Seraphine turned her back deliberately, tail feathers splayed in a way that screamed majestic defiance. She addressed the crowd of ferns, roses, and startled beetles. “Colors, hear me. They would make you ashamed of being bold. They’d have you believe beige is safer, taupe is respectable, and neon only belongs on karaoke flyers. But you were born audacious. You were painted reckless. This forest is not a cubicle—it is a cathedral. And cathedrals deserve stained glass, not frosted panels of standardized taupe!” The roses cheered with thorns out. The fox howled. Even Elder Root shook his branches, sending down a shower of acorns like emphatic applause. The smear-frame pulsed, a faint ripple of aquamarine sliding across its edge, as if it too wanted to belong. The Committee recoiled. Their clipboards quivered, rectangles of gray rippling with a hint of fear. “This is irregular,” hissed the leader. “We must consult… higher management.” “Do that,” Seraphine said. “But know this: while you file your memos and sharpen your monochrome, my forest will keep its hues. And should you return with chains for color, I’ll repaint your clipboards into rainbows so gaudy, you’ll wish you’d died beige.” The Committee dispersed in a flurry of papers, vanishing into the northern horizon like a bad newsletter. The silence they left behind was fragile, but the forest filled it with cautious song. Petals brightened. Leaves stretched. The smear-frame hummed like a child reciting its first poem. Vesper padded closer, eyes gleaming. “You know they’ll come back, right? With more paperwork. Maybe even PowerPoints.” Seraphine gave a dark, velvety chuckle. “Then we’ll need allies. The brighter, the bolder, the sassier, the better. This fight isn’t just about keeping our colors. It’s about refusing to apologize for them.” She spread her wings, hues exploding across the dawn like a rebellion with feathers. And somewhere beyond the horizon, higher management stirred. The kind of management that didn’t just ration colors—they patented them. The kind that painted skies gray for profit. The kind that, if Seraphine wasn’t careful, would rewrite the forest in grayscale footnotes. The Color Cartel The first rumor arrived on raven wings. Not the polite, note-taking ravens, mind you. These were the sarcastic ones who couldn’t tell a secret without adding commentary. “Guardian,” croaked the lead raven, perching dramatically on Elder Root’s shoulder, “the Color Cartel is mobilizing. They’ve sent cease-and-desist letters to sunsets and threatened to repossess rainbows. One rainbow in particular is suing for emotional damages.” Seraphine narrowed her eyes. “So they’re moving from bullying flowers to bankrupting horizons. How tedious.” She ruffled her feathers, throwing sparks of chartreuse and garnet into the morning air like a fireworks display with opinions. “Tell them we’ll be hosting a festival—of pigments too impossible to patent.” The raven tilted his head. “A festival? You’re going to fight a cartel with… glitter?” “Not glitter,” she said. “Wonder.” The Festival of Impossible Pigments Within days, the forest transformed. Mushrooms glowed with colors they’d been hiding out of shyness. Ferns sprouted leaves edged in hues only bees could name. The foxes painted their tails with ultraviolet streaks visible only to the honest. Vesper strutted like he’d invented confidence. The moths threw a runway show, modeling outfits so dazzling even the cicadas forgot to be obnoxious for five minutes. And then came Seraphine. She took the central perch, feathers flaring into shades no mortal palette had cataloged: the green of laughter echoing in a canyon, the violet of secrets kept under pillows, the gold of forgiveness after a fight. These weren’t colors—they were confessions wearing light. The crowd gasped, cheered, cried, and danced all at once. The festival was not merely a celebration; it was defiance given wings. Naturally, that’s when the Color Cartel showed up. They arrived in uniforms the shade of lawyer breath—a beige so dull it could cancel joy at twenty paces. Their leader, a tall figure in a robe stitched entirely of contracts, stepped forward. Its voice rattled like a stapler in heat. “Cease this unauthorized saturation. Effective immediately. Or we’ll desaturate your forest into compliance.” Seraphine tilted her head, slow and regal. “You’re welcome to try,” she said, her eyes glowing with every shade of defiance. “But understand this: you can’t copyright awe. You can’t trademark wonder. And if you so much as sneeze on a violet, I will personally repaint your robes with hues so bright they’ll burn your retinas into optimism.” The crowd roared. The smear-frame pulsed aquamarine, then emerald, then—miracle of miracles—crimson. It had found its courage at last. The ravens dive-bombed with sarcasm, distracting the Cartel’s enforcers. Foxes stole their staplers. The moth runway show pivoted into a battle catwalk, dazzling the enemy with avant-garde sparkle. Elder Root dropped acorns like meteors. Even the hydrangea got in on it, shouting, “Tasteful border, my petals!” before walloping a Cartel goon with a bouquet. The Last Laugh of the Guardian The battle was loud, ridiculous, and deeply satisfying. Contracts tore. Beige unraveled. The Cartel’s robes faded until they were nothing more than dull shadows too embarrassed to linger. Seraphine soared overhead, every wingbeat painting the sky with a new declaration: Hope is not negotiable. When the dust settled (and the moths finished their encore strut), the forest was brighter than ever. The smear-frame, once ashamed of its hunger, now shimmered proudly at the edge of the clearing—no longer a void, but a window into possibility. It hummed softly, like a promise learning to sing. Seraphine perched on Elder Root again, gazing over her domain. “Well,” she said, smoothing a rebellious feather. “That was fun. Who’s up for pie?” The fox groaned. “Please. No more pie.” The ravens cackled. The flowers blushed. Even the cicadas clapped their wings, though badly off-beat. And in the center of it all, Seraphine, Guardian of the Painted Feathers, closed her eyes. For tonight, the colors were safe. Tomorrow, bureaucracy might return. But she’d be ready—with sass, with feathers, and with a hope too radiant to ration. Because guardians don’t just protect. They remind the world to stay audacious. Epilogue They say if you wander deep into that forest on a moonlit night, you’ll see her: an owl shimmering with impossible hues, watching with eyes that could outwit empires. If you’re lucky, she’ll wink. If you’re unlucky, she’ll assign you to hydrangea duty. Either way, you’ll leave brighter than you came.     Bring the Guardian Home The legend of Seraphine, the Guardian of the Painted Feathers, doesn’t have to live only in story. Her brilliant hues and defiant spirit can brighten your own space, wrapping your world in the same audacity she gifted the forest. Imagine her gaze watching over your home, her plumage spilling color into your days—a reminder that hope and sass are always worth protecting. Choose how you’d like to welcome her: Framed Print — perfect for gallery walls or living spaces that crave bold energy. Canvas Print — a textured, painterly feel that makes the Guardian’s feathers look alive. Tote Bag — carry the Guardian with you as a daily protector of both your belongings and your style. Fleece Blanket — curl up under her wings of impossible color and warmth. Greeting Card — share the Guardian’s hope and humor with friends who could use a reminder to stay bold. Whichever form you choose, the Guardian is ready to perch in your world, infusing it with the same defiant beauty she used to save her forest. Bring her home, and let every glance remind you that your colors deserve to shine.

por Bill Tiepelman

Ritualist of the Forgotten Forge

The Circle No One Sweeps The village had long since stopped asking why their forge was haunted. Honestly, it was easier to pretend that the glowing sigil carved into the soot-stained floor was just “decorative rustic lighting.” Everyone knew better, of course. They whispered about the little figure who appeared only at midnight: a gnome, pale as moonlight, with chains jingling around his tattered boots. He had the kind of beard that screamed, “I’ve got secrets,” and eyes that glowed as though he’d mainlined battery acid. They called him the Ritualist, though behind closed doors they also called him less flattering things—like “that cranky little goth garden statue reject.” No one dared sweep the forge anymore. The glowing circle on the ground? Untouched. The puddle of neon goo dripping endlessly from nowhere? Nobody even mopped. It was simply understood that those were the Ritualist’s toys, and tampering with them meant your cows went dry or your husband suddenly started reciting poetry about toenail fungus. The Ritualist didn’t mess around with subtle curses. He went straight for the weird and humiliating. Some swore he had once been a smith—back when the forge actually forged, before it became a paranormal Airbnb for things with too many teeth. They said he hammered armor so sharp it sliced shadows, swords that bled smoke, and helmets that whispered to their owners at night, telling them secrets about who farted in the tavern. But that was centuries ago. Now he sat in the dust, crouched low, muttering over runes that pulsed in colors even the rainbow didn’t claim. The strangest part wasn’t his magic, though. It was his attitude. The Ritualist wasn’t your solemn, robe-wrapped mystic. He was snark incarnate. Villagers swore they’d heard him heckle wandering spirits. “Boo? Really? That’s the best you’ve got?” he’d sneer, or worse, “Wow, Casper, I’m shaking in my boots—oh wait, those are YOUR boots, nice try.” His reputation as the village’s resident paranormal troll was both feared and begrudgingly respected. No ghost dared linger, no demon dared pout—he roasted them harder than the forge’s old flames. Yet, beneath all the eye-rolling bravado, there was something else. A mystery thicker than his beard oils. Why did he keep that circle glowing? Why did he never leave the forge, never step into daylight? And why—on that particular midnight—did he look up from the circle with an expression that wasn’t snarky at all, but genuinely… afraid? Forge Gossip, Bad Omens, and a Gnome Who Knows Too Much Midnight again, and the forge was already humming like a drunk monk chanting off-key. The sigil burned hotter, violet sparks shooting into the air like the world’s most pretentious fireworks display. The Ritualist crouched at its center, muttering in a language that sounded half like incantation and half like he was trying to beatbox with bronchitis. His beard swayed with each whispered syllable, and the chains on his boots rattled in rhythm, giving him the vibe of an off-brand gothic metronome. What no villager ever knew—because they valued their lives too much to peek—was that the Ritualist didn’t just sit there looking spooky for kicks. He was working. Sort of. Every night he argued with the circle. Yes, argued. The runes hissed at him, the neon goo sloshed with disapproval, and occasionally a voice would bubble up from beneath the floor with the passive-aggressive tone of someone’s dead aunt. “You should have cleaned up better when you had the chance,” the voice would say. “You were always so lazy.” The Ritualist would snarl back, “Oh, put a rune in it, Agnes. Your casseroles were terrible.” He wasn’t entirely wrong—the runes were haunted. Each stroke of glowing script was an IOU signed in blood and sass centuries ago. The Forgotten Forge had been the playground of entities that thought blacksmiths were the best kind of pen pals: they sent anvils in exchange for souls, hammers for promises, tongs for secrets. And the Ritualist? He was the last smith standing. He kept the debts balanced—or at least juggled them long enough to keep the forge from imploding into an interdimensional sinkhole. Glamorous, it was not. And yet, for someone whose job was essentially to babysit eldritch graffiti, he had style. He leaned into the goth aesthetic so hard it practically squeaked. Black leather jacket stitched with runes no one could read? Check. Tall, pointed hat that looked like it could stab a squirrel at twenty paces? Double check. Boots heavy enough to stomp through the bones of the damned? Triple check, plus steel toes. The Ritualist didn’t half-ass his look, not even when summoning things that could liquify him faster than an overripe tomato in a blender. On this night, however, the look wasn’t enough to hide the twitch in his eye. The circle was glowing wrong. Too bright. Too… needy. Like a cat at 3 a.m. demanding snacks. He could feel the forge floor thrumming under his palms, the metal veins in the stone vibrating as though something beneath was stretching after a long nap. He didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one damn bit. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered, squinting at the neon goo now bubbling like a pot of suspicious soup. “Not tonight. I’ve got things to do. I’ve got beard oil to apply, curses to polish. Do you even realize how much unpaid overtime I’ve got stacked up?” The circle hissed louder, like a chorus of angry snakes. Sparks showered the air, scorching little burn marks into the rafters. A shadow slithered along the forge walls, longer than it should’ve been, sharper, hungrier. The Ritualist pulled a jagged little knife from his belt and pointed it lazily, like he was too tired for this nonsense but still willing to stab something if it ruined his evening. “Don’t test me,” he growled. “You know I’m cranky after midnight. You wouldn’t like me when I’m cranky.” But the thing did test him. From the circle rose a figure: not demon, not ghost, but something worse—the village gossip. Or, more precisely, the spirit of every bit of gossip the village had ever spewed. The thing formed from whispers and rumors, stitched together with petty envy and judgmental eyebrow raises. It oozed into shape like smoke made of disapproving sighs. It was hideous. It was relentless. It was the kind of entity that didn’t just eat souls—it ate your self-esteem. “Oh look at you,” the whisper-spirit crooned in a thousand voices. “All alone. Playing witch-doctor with chalk scribbles. Not even a real gnome—more like a washed-up lawn ornament with a hot topic gift card.” The Ritualist snarled, jabbing his knife at the thing. “Say that again, you whispering pile of mildew.” “Oh, we’ll say more,” it hissed, circling him. “We’ll say everything. We’ll tell them you’re scared. That you’re failing. That the forge is breaking, and you’re too busy being dramatic to fix it. We’ll tell them you wear eyeliner in the dark even though no one’s watching.” He squinted. “First off, eyeliner is a mood, not an audience event. Second—” He slashed the knife through the air, sending a spark of violet lightning across the circle. The gossip-wraith recoiled, shrieking in overlapping voices. But it didn’t vanish. Not yet. The Ritualist stood straighter now, his pale skin aglow with the circle’s fire, his beard practically sparkling with static. “Listen, you pile of spectral trash,” he said, voice dripping with mockery. “I’ve dealt with banshees who sang off-key, revenants with bad breath, and one very angry ghost donkey. Do you think a walking pile of rumor-mill nonsense is going to rattle me?” He grinned, baring teeth too sharp for a gnome. “Newsflash: I am the rumor. I am the punchline. And I’m not afraid to burn your little whispering ass back to whatever cosmic sewing circle you crawled out of.” The wraith hissed again, but the forge itself shook this time—rafters groaning, iron chains rattling, embers bursting like fireworks. The Ritualist’s grin faltered. Just a little. Because behind the gossip-thing, something bigger was pressing against the circle, something too large for words, too old for jokes. And for the first time in a very long while, his sarcasm didn’t feel like enough. The Forge Throws a Tantrum The gossip-wraith shimmered like static, circling the Ritualist with the smugness of a cat that just knocked over your last glass of wine. It was annoying enough, but the real problem was what was happening behind it. The forge floor was cracking. The neon sigil pulsed like a diseased heartbeat, veins of glowing violet spiderwebbing through the stone. Whatever was pressing from below was no polite house spirit—it was old, it was hungry, and it was stretching like it hadn’t had a snack since the Dark Ages. “Well,” the Ritualist muttered, shoving his knife back into its sheath, “this is officially above my pay grade. And I don’t even get paid. You’d think babysitting a haunted forge would come with benefits. Dental? A retirement plan? Hell, I’d settle for a beer tab.” The gossip-wraith cackled in overlapping voices. “You’re slipping. They’ll see it. They’ll whisper it. They’ll laugh.” He scowled, then jabbed a finger at it. “Do me a favor and choke on your own smug. I’ve got bigger problems than your commentary track.” That’s when the floor gave out. A crack split the circle wide open, neon goo splattering like someone tipped over a vat of radioactive jam. From the fissure rose a claw—gnarled, metallic, dripping molten sparks. Then another. Then something enormous heaved itself halfway out of the earth, forcing the rafters to quake and the iron beams to groan. It was like the forge itself had decided it was done being a workplace and wanted to be a boss monster instead. And what emerged wasn’t exactly a demon. Or a ghost. Or even something describable in polite company. It was all of them, a mashup of nightmare tropes rolled into one hideous, jaw-dropping monstrosity. Think dragon made out of chainmail and resentment, stitched together with the bad attitude of every villain who ever monologued too long. Its eyes blazed with the light of exploding suns. Its teeth looked like they’d flossed with barbed wire. And its voice—when it opened its maw—sounded like a garbage disposal trying to sing opera. “Well, shit,” said the Ritualist, dusting off his hands. “Guess I’m working overtime.” The gossip-wraith, now reduced to a shadow clinging to the forge wall, squeaked, “You can’t stop it!” “Oh honey,” the Ritualist drawled, pulling a jagged black hammer from behind the anvil, “I don’t need to stop it. I just need to piss it off enough that it leaves me alone for another hundred years.” The hammer wasn’t just a hammer—it was the hammer. The last artifact of the Forgotten Forge, etched with runes so ancient even the gossip-thing shut up for a moment. When he swung it, it didn’t just hit metal. It hit concepts. You could bash someone’s hope with it. You could smash irony across the jaw. Once, legend said, he had flattened an entire bureaucracy just by tapping their paperwork with it. True story. The Ritualist raised the hammer as the monstrous thing hauled itself higher, its claws gouging trenches into the floor. “Alright, Stretch,” he called out, voice sharp as a whip. “You woke up on the wrong side of the apocalypse. I get it. But here’s the deal—this is my forge. My circle. My neon goo puddle. And if you think you’re going to waltz in here like you own the place, well…” He smirked, baring sharp teeth. “You’re about to get hammered.” The fight that followed would’ve made the gods lean in with popcorn. The creature lunged, jaws snapping, molten spit sizzling on the stone. The Ritualist swung, hammer connecting with a roar that rippled through dimensions. Sparks flew, each one a memory burned into existence, each one stinging like sarcasm flung at the wrong time. The monster reeled back, screeching. The circle pulsed harder, trying to contain the chaos, but cracks spread wider, glowing brighter, like a rave held by tectonic plates. “You can’t win!” the gossip-wraith shrieked. “You’re just one cranky gnome with eyeliner!” “Correction,” the Ritualist snarled, dodging a claw swipe that nearly took his hat, “I’m the crankiest gnome with eyeliner, and that makes me unstoppable.” Another swing of the hammer cracked one of the beast’s claws clean off. It hit the floor with a clang, rattling the rafters. The monster screamed, retaliating with a wave of molten sparks that lit the forge in blinding firelight. Shadows danced across the walls, and for a moment the Ritualist looked less like a gnome and more like a god—a tiny, furious god in black boots, standing defiant against something ten times his size. The villagers outside woke to the sound of explosions, groaning metal, and one very loud gnome screaming things like, “I SAID NO TRESPASSING!” and “GET YOUR OVERGROWN ASS OUT OF MY CIRCLE!” Windows rattled. Cows panicked. Someone tried to pray, but their words got drowned out by a particularly nasty clang followed by the monster’s howl of defeat. By dawn, the forge was quiet again. The villagers crept up, peeking from behind fences, half-expecting to find nothing but rubble. Instead, they found the forge intact, glowing faintly. The Ritualist sat in the middle of it all, cross-legged, hammer resting across his lap, beard singed at the edges, boots steaming. His hat was crooked, his jacket torn, and his glare dared anyone to ask questions. “What happened?” one brave idiot finally asked. The Ritualist looked up slowly, eyes glowing with leftover fire. “What happened,” he said dryly, “is that you owe me a beer. Actually, three. No, make it five. And if anyone so much as thinks about sweeping this forge, I swear I’ll curse your entire family tree with flatulence until the seventh generation.” And that was that. The forge remained standing, the circle glowing. The villagers never asked again. Because they knew better. The Ritualist of the Forgotten Forge wasn’t just a guardian. He was a professional problem, and sometimes—just sometimes—he was the only thing standing between their little world and complete annihilation. With sarcasm as sharp as his hammer, and eyeliner dark enough to shame the night, he would keep the circle burning, one snarky midnight at a time.     Epilogue: Beard Oil and Beer Tabs Days passed, and the villagers noticed something odd. The forge wasn’t just glowing anymore—it was purring. A low, steady hum, like the sound of a very smug cat that had eaten its fill of eldritch horrors. The Ritualist himself was seen less often, mostly because he spent more time napping in the forge with his hammer across his chest like a gnome-sized guard dog. When questioned, he’d wave them off with a grunt. “Circle’s fine. Big ugly went back to sleep. Don’t touch my goo puddle. That’s all you need to know.” The gossip-wraith? Still lurking in the rafters, but quieter now. Occasionally it would whisper mean things, but the Ritualist had perfected the art of flipping it off without even opening his eyes. He claimed he’d “domesticated it,” like one might with a raccoon or a very rude parrot. Nobody wanted to test him on that. Legend spread. Children dared each other to peek at the forge windows at night, hoping to see sparks of violet lightning or hear the gnome muttering insults at unseen enemies. Merchants made jokes about bottling the neon goo as a tonic—though no one had the guts to try. The Ritualist, meanwhile, enjoyed the attention only in the sense that it annoyed him. “Great,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’m a tourist attraction now. Next thing you know, you’ll want to put me on a damn postcard.” And yet, every night at midnight, he still crouched over the circle. Still muttered his strange half-incantations, half-insults. Still kept the balance. Because deep down—even beneath the eyeliner, the sarcasm, and the layers of cranky attitude—he knew what the villagers would never admit: that without him, their world would’ve cracked open long ago. He didn’t need their gratitude. He just needed their beer. And maybe, on a good day, someone to bring him a new bottle of beard oil. So the forge burned, the circle glowed, and the Ritualist endured—snark, curses, neon goo puddle and all. Because sometimes the world doesn’t need a hero. Sometimes it just needs a goth gnome with attitude and a hammer that can smack concepts in the teeth.   Bring the Ritual Home If the Ritualist of the Forgotten Forge made you laugh, cringe, or secretly wish you had your own goo puddle of eldritch neon power, you can bring a piece of his world into yours. Whether you want a bold statement for your walls, a cozy snark-filled blanket, or even a notebook to scribble your own questionable runes, we’ve got you covered. Hang the Ritualist’s midnight snarl in your living room with a Framed Print, or go sleek and modern with a fiery Metal Print. Need a sidekick for your ideas (or curses)? Grab the Spiral Notebook and jot down every sarcastic prophecy that pops into your head. For those who like their goth gnomes portable, slap him anywhere with a Sticker—on your laptop, your water bottle, or straight onto your neighbor’s broom (no judgment). And when the night grows long, curl up under the dark comfort of a Fleece Blanket glowing with his mysterious energy. Because sometimes the world doesn’t need a hero. It just needs a goth gnome with an attitude—and now, so do you.

por Bill Tiepelman

Daughter of the Flameveil

The Emberling Who Wouldn't Behave In a desert so old it forgot its own name, where the sun whispered secrets to the dunes and the wind told only dirty jokes, a girl was born beneath a veil of flame. Not literally on fire, mind you—though her Aunt Keela would forever claim there was “a glimmer of combustion behind those eyes.” No, little Maelyra came into the world wrapped in smoke-colored swaddles and prophecy. And colic. Lots of colic. She was the third daughter of the House of Emberveil, a bloodline known for birthing women who could summon storms with a wink and read the truth off a man's tongue like a menu. Each girl was meant to grow into a Seer, a Whisperer, a Queen of the Inner Flame. But not Maelyra. Maelyra liked to braid scorpions into her hair (non-venomous, usually), blow bubbles during sacred meditations, and sneak fire-milk liquor into the ceremonial tea of the High Sisters. By thirteen, she’d rewritten the temple’s hymnal to include fart jokes and rewritten her fate by setting the Oracle Tent on fire with nothing but a glare, a sarcastic prayer, and a stolen jar of moon oil. “She is... spirited,” whispered the High Priestess, stroking her singed brows. “She’s a menace,” sighed Maelyra’s mother, Queen Ashava, as her daughter skipped past naked except for henna, a sash, and a goat wearing her tiara. And the Flameveil? That ancient mask of swirling patterns that revealed a Seer’s calling, the one that kissed each chosen face in sleep with divine approval? It refused to appear on Maelyra’s face, no matter how many rites they tried. “Flame-shamed,” they called her behind jeweled fans and closed tent flaps. But Maelyra wasn’t flame-shamed. She was flame-pissed. “You want fire?” she declared one star-bloated night, staring into the embers of her campfire. “Fine. Let’s start with your rules.” And she did. Starting with the “don’t commune with spirits while tipsy” rule. That was the night she met him. “You rang?” said the spirit, climbing out of the smoke like a cinnamon-dusted flirt. He had a jaw that could cut glass, eyes full of bad decisions, and the laugh of a forgotten god who’d just found tequila. He wasn’t exactly part of the temple’s approved pantheon, but Maelyra didn’t care. His name was Thalun, and he was the discarded guardian of failed seers—what he called “freelance spiritual misfits.” “You're like a cosmic guidance counselor,” she smirked. “But hot.” “And you,” he purred, flicking a spark off her nose, “are a walking violation of sacred protocol. I like you already.” Their partnership began with sass and firelight and a mutually understood agreement to not follow any cosmic instruction manuals. Together, they crashed a moon festival, released a captured desert wind, and convinced a bored sand wyrm to become the temple’s new therapy pet. But something strange was happening to Maelyra’s skin. The first mark appeared while she was eating pickled cactus at sunrise—a soft, gold spiral etched on her cheek. By the next day, two more blossomed across her brow and jawline, delicate as henna, radiant as sunrise, and suspiciously familiar. “Is that the—” Thalun started. “Nope,” Maelyra said, licking pickle brine off her fingers. “Must be a rash.” But it wasn’t. The Flameveil was waking up... and it had opinions. The Veil Talks Back The day Maelyra’s third Flameveil marking appeared, the temple’s bird-messenger dropped dead mid-air. “Dramatic,” she muttered, stepping over the feathered omen like it was a laundry basket. “Could’ve just sent a passive-aggressive dream like everyone else.” But the Elders were already twitching in their robes. Her mother, Queen Ashava, summoned a private conclave where everyone spoke in low, sacred tones and sipped tea like it was truth serum. The High Priestess clutched her prayer beads so hard one of them exploded, and the Spirit of Communal Modesty hiccuped loudly through the incense smoke. They were worried. About Maelyra. About the Flameveil. About what it meant when an irreverent girl who once taught the temple goats to twerk began growing divine tattoos she clearly hadn't earned. “It’s not supposed to grow on her,” an Elder hissed, mouth full of blessed pastry. “Maybe it's a punishment,” offered another, adjusting his belt of holy enlightenment (which Maelyra always thought looked suspiciously like a cheap curtain tie). “A slow divine branding.” Maelyra, eavesdropping in the rafters while hand-feeding raisins to a spiritual crow named Kevin, rolled her eyes so hard she saw the beginning of time. “If they’re going to gossip,” she told Kevin, “they could at least offer snacks.” That night, the Flameveil spoke to her for the first time. Not in riddles or fiery scrolls, but with the bluntness of a battle-worn auntie and the subtlety of a camel in tap shoes. “Get up. We need to talk.” Maelyra bolted upright in her tent, halfway tangled in her sleeping rug and clutching a pillow shaped like a desert potato. “What in the seven rings—” “No time. Listen. I’ve been watching. You’re a mess.” The voice came from inside her own skin, as if the golden marks had grown vocal cords and no filter. “You’re stubborn, chaotic, easily distracted by shiny men and forbidden beverages, and utterly unequipped for spiritual leadership.” Maelyra blinked. “Okay, ouch.” “But... you’re also curious, hilarious, absurdly brave, and... well, let’s just say the other candidates were like wet scrolls compared to you. The Flame chose. Reluctantly. I am your Veil now. Deal with it.” She stared into the polished bowl of water beside her bed, where her reflection now shimmered with faint, pulsing lines of divine filigree. Each new mark curved and danced like a flame drawn in lace. And—most unsettling of all—they wiggled when she made snarky comments. “You’re alive, aren’t you?” she whispered to the mask. “Of course I am. I’ve outlived empires, judged queens, slapped prophets, and once cursed a llama into enlightenment. I’m not just some cosmetic destiny doodle.” That was how she learned the Flameveil wasn’t just a symbol. It was a sentient legacy, bound to the soul of its bearer like cosmic spanx—tight, occasionally sassy, and constantly holding things together whether you wanted it or not. The next few weeks were a montage of magical mishaps. The veil wouldn’t stop giving commentary during rituals. (“Wrong hand, darling.” “That’s not a sacred bowl, that’s soup.” “Stop winking at the acolyte, Maelyra.”) Thalun, her spirit guide turned semi-boyfriend turned full-time mischief coach, watched with increasing amusement. “You’re literally arguing with your own destiny,” he said, lounging in midair and eating starfruit like a smug lantern. “Destiny shouldn’t have opinions on underwear,” she snapped, tugging at the ceremonial garb the Veil insisted was “traditionally flattering.” But things were shifting. The sand no longer burned her feet when she walked barefoot. The temple’s cats followed her in perfect spiral formations. A forgotten prophecy—a very dramatic, rhyming one involving “laughter unburnt and a womb of chaos”—started circulating like gossip at a camel race. And then the visions began. Not the polite, misty dream-visions of old. These were vivid, loud, and surprisingly musical. One minute she was meditating with Thalun, the next she was in a glowing hallway of ancestral seers, being serenaded by a chorus of grandmothers with tambourines. “Oh no,” Thalun said, as her eyes glazed over in yet another vision fit. “She’s in Grandma-Mode again.” Maelyra returned from each trance sweaty, confused, and often humming tunes she’d never heard before. The Flameveil would then glow brighter, as if pleased, while her mother grew increasingly pale at the sight of her daughter levitating during breakfast. Eventually, the temple had to act. They declared a Pilgrimage of Proving—a sacred, absurdly long journey through fire, storms, awkward mountain villages, and at least one judgmental cactus—to determine whether Maelyra truly deserved the mask that was now clearly clinging to her like a divine barnacle. “You will leave at dawn,” the High Priestess announced dramatically. “You may take one companion and one spiritual artifact.” Maelyra grinned. “I’ll take Thalun. And Kevin the crow.” “That’s two companions.” “Kevin’s technically an artifact. He once swallowed a blessed spoon.” The council groaned. And so, with sass in her sandals, visions in her veins, and a sassy ancient tattoo-mask fused to her face, Maelyra stepped beyond the temple gates. The Flameveil pulsed. Thalun floated beside her like a scandalous idea. Kevin pooped dramatically on a sacred rock. The journey had begun. The Prophecy of Inappropriate Timing It rained frogs on the fifth day of Maelyra’s pilgrimage. “This is a test,” Thalun muttered, shielding his spectral head with a half-eaten scroll. “It’s gotta be. Divine plumbing gone rogue.” “No, this is definitely Grandma Anareth’s doing,” Maelyra muttered, swatting a toad out of her sandal. “She always said my journey would be ‘ribbiting.’” They had crossed five deserts, four sacred sinkholes, and a field of whispering sandstones that only insulted travelers in haiku form. Kevin the crow had developed a gambling problem with desert beetles. Thalun had been propositioned by a sentient cactus. And Maelyra? She was now glowing. Literally. Her Flameveil shimmered like dusk caught in silk, the golden designs on her skin now spreading down her arms and spine like creeping ivy lit from within. “I think I’m mutating,” she said one night, watching her reflection shimmer in a puddle of starlight. “You’re ascending,” the Veil corrected, always the know-it-all. “Though yes, it’s very glowy. Try not to blind yourself.” By now, the bond between Maelyra and the Flameveil was... complicated. Like co-parenting a magical toddler with a spicy ex. The Veil nagged, snarked, and guided her with the same energy as a stubborn dance instructor who refused to let the student sit down until the twirl was perfect. But there was affection, too. She felt it during the quiet hours when the stars listened and the mask hummed lullabies through her bones. And then they reached the Canyon of Echoes, where every flameborn Seer for the past thousand years had gone to receive their final rite. Maelyra expected music. Fireworks. A laser-projected flaming goat, maybe. Instead, she got a single stone slab, a pile of spiritual paperwork, and a bored-looking celestial clerk named Meryl. “Sign here. Blood or ink. No refunds.” “That’s it?” Maelyra asked, side-eyeing Thalun. “That’s bureaucracy, love,” Thalun sighed. “Even for the divine.” But the moment her palm touched the stone, the air changed. Her body lifted off the ground, the Flameveil igniting in a blinding burst of gold and rose-pink light. She hovered mid-air, arms out, hair wild, voice trembling with something far older than herself. “I am Maelyra of the Flameveil,” she declared, her voice no longer just hers, but woven with ancestral tones and slightly inappropriate jazz harmonies. “I carry the laughter of the unruly, the wisdom of the half-drunk, and the sacred nonsense of chaos made holy. I claim the right to burn with joy, to see through shadows, and to kiss fate on the mouth if I feel like it!” Then she burst into flames. Beautiful, harmless, sassy flames. The kind that danced and curled and left sparkles in the air like confetti. When she landed, the canyon had changed. A temple stood where there had been stone. A gathering of spirits waited with tambourines and smirks. Kevin wore a tiny crown. “You’re late,” said a familiar voice. The ancestors. Dozens of them. Some regal, some weird, one clearly holding a margarita. “You mean I made it?” “You redefined it,” said the Veil. “You took the sacred and made it sweaty, funny, and ridiculous. That’s power. That’s the point.” Thalun floated closer. “So... are you a full Seer now?” She turned to him, her eyes full of fire and mischief. “No, I’m something worse. I’m the first Wyrd Seer. The one who laughs at fate, flirts with destiny, and makes the gods uncomfortable in their sandals.” She leaned in and kissed him, fiery and slow, as celestial spirits pretended not to watch but totally did. From that day on, Maelyra traveled the realms as a wild oracle of sass and wonder. She gave visions to anyone who asked, as long as they were willing to dance, drink, or listen to dirty jokes. She rewrote the rules of prophecy, starting with: “Stop taking yourself so seriously, you holy biscuit.” The Flameveil glowed brighter every year. Not because it was ancient, but because it was finally having fun. And in the great cosmic ledger, where the deeds of every Seer were inscribed, Maelyra’s entry simply read: “She made us laugh. She made us feel. She stole a god’s pants once. We approve.” Story image reference and inspiration from Rania Renderings       Want to carry a spark of Maelyra’s wild prophecy into your world? Whether you’re dressing up your walls or wrapping yourself in sass-soaked mysticism, framed art prints and acrylic panels bring her gaze into your sacred space with full fire and finesse. Let her travel with you on an enchanted tote bag, lounge beside you on a boldly woven beach towel, or stretch across your realm as a vibrant tapestry worth prophesying over. Wherever she goes, so does the laughter, the mystery, and the unapologetic magic of the Flameveil.

por Bill Tiepelman

Guardian Cub of Enchanted Realms

The Branch, the Bright Eyes, and the Bad Timing The first rule of the Enchanted Forest is simple: don’t lick anything that glows. The second rule is more of a gentle suggestion—try not to insult the wildlife, especially if it has wings large enough to fan you like a celebrity at a summer gala. I broke both rules within ten minutes. I was tracking a strand of sunset that had slipped between the trees—a lazy, honey-gold ribbon that pooled across a moss-covered branch. That’s when I saw her: a winged snow leopard cub, all spotted velvet and impossible featherwork, perched like a secret the forest had been dying to tell someone with the right kind of ears. Her eyes were the glassy blue of mountain air, bright enough to make the shadows admit they’d been exaggerating. “Hello,” I said, because this is what you say to miracles if you’re polite and over thirty-five. “You’re not in the product catalog.” The cub blinked slowly—the feline equivalent of an elevator door that has decided it will not close while you are still telling your life story. A single feather unhooked from her wing and spiraled down, luminous as frost in candlelight. It landed on my boot and melted into a scent like snow at the moment it forgives the sun. You took your time, a voice said inside my head, breezy as chiffon. There’s a prophecy, and also a schedule. I looked around, because the etiquette of telepathy never really stuck with me. “You… talked?” Talked? Please. I upgraded to direct transfer after the owls kept live-tweeting my secrets. The cub stood, every tuft and whisker suddenly photo-real under the latticework of golden light. My name is Lumen. I’m a Guardian. Of the Realms. Junior edition. Probationary, technically. “Junior edition?” I repeated, because sometimes your brain just idles. I haven’t had my Ascension Nap. Bureaucracy. She flicked her tail, ringed like a moon seen through lace. But someone has to fix the tear between winter and summer, and the elders are allergic to urgency. I sat on the branch opposite her, careful not to test the load-bearing capacity of myth. The forest breathed around us—glow-mushrooms hemming the shadows, dust motes drifting like confetti that forgot the party ended in 1492. “So there’s a tear. In seasons.” In everything, really. Lumen stretched her wings, and the feathers drank the light before giving it back brighter. The Frostbound Choir thinks the world should be permanently iced—easy to manage, aesthetically consistent. The Ember Syndicate wants a forever-summer with more sizzle than sense. If they finish their tug-of-war, there’ll be no spring to fall into, no autumn to gather. No home for the enchanted forest or the quiet places where hope sprouts like weeds. “Let me guess,” I said, “you need a human who can follow instructions, keep calm under supernatural pressure, and absolutely not lick the glowing things.” Lumen tilted her head. Realistically? I need a human who can improvise. And who carries snacks. I offered a bag of trail mix with the air of a knight presenting a holy relic. She nosed it, selected exactly three almonds, and somehow made it a ceremony. You’re hired. Somewhere above us, a bough unspooled from shadow and dropped a drip of resin onto my forehead, the forest’s version of a notary stamp. The gold fleck spread warm across my skin and sank in, humming like a distant choir that had learned to keep its arrogance to a whisper. Contract sealed, Lumen said. Clause one: you will walk with me. Clause two: you will laugh when fear tries to be funny. Clause three: hope is not optional; it’s equipment. We moved along the branch like co-conspirators, the bark a patchwork of emerald and old stories. Beneath us, the forest opened into a clearing where sunbeams stitched the ground into a warm quilt. Dragonflies skimmed the light, wearing jeweled harnesses of dawn. I felt the world thicken with meaning, the way soup does when you’ve finally added enough potatoes. “Where are we going?” I asked. The seam, she said. Where winter leaks into summer and vice versa. We’ll patch it with laughter, ritual, and reckless competence. And possibly a needle made of moonlight. “Straightforward,” I said, bravely lying. “And the odds?” On paper? Unkind. In practice? Her eyes glimmered like ice deciding to behave. We’ll win by making better mistakes than our enemies. We entered the clearing—and the air split with a sound like glass learning to sing. The temperature plunged. Frost raced along the edges of leaves, sketching filigree so perfect it hurt to look at. On the far side, heat shimmered off the earth, the color of apricots and audacity. Between them, a silver rift unstitched the world from ankle to sky. “If this were a merch photo,” I muttered, “we’d call it Celestial Leopard vs. Art-Directed Catastrophe and sell prints until the moon filed for royalties.” Focus, beloved chaos, Lumen said, though I felt her amusement purr through my ribs. First, we listen. From the cold side came a thin, sacred harmony—voices stacked like icicles—sharp, beautiful, and merciless. From the hot side throbbed a bass-heavy chant that smelled of citrus and mischief, a music that would dance you into a good decision and then dare you to dance again. The two songs warred, and the rift widened by the width of my regret. “Can we… harmonize them?” I asked. Eventually, yes. Tonight? Lumen’s feathered ear twitched. We start smaller. The Choir sent a scout to intimidate us—do not be impressed. The trick with bullies is realizing how boring they are. Something stepped from the winter side: tall, cloaked in hoarfrost, antlers veined with trapped starlight. Its breath scribbled the air into equations that solved for despair. I felt my knees reconsider their career choices. “Name yourself,” the figure intoned, the syllables so cold they cracked. Before I could speak, Lumen hopped onto the midpoint of the branch like a child claiming a stage. I am Lumen, Guardian Cub of the Enchanted Realms, Assistant Manager of Miracles, and today’s customer service representative. You’ve violated seasonal policy, subsection ‘Don’t Be a Drama Blizzard.’ Kindly take a number. If a frost-wraith can look offended, this one achieved it with gusto. “You are a cub.” And you are late to your own downfall, Lumen said, fluffing to approximately twice her already fabulous volume. Behold my associate: human, resilient, snack-enabled. “Hi,” I said, because sometimes bravery just means showing up. I stepped forward and, without overthinking it, began to hum the warm song I’d heard leaking from the summer side. Not loudly—just enough to set the air vibrating like a list of good ideas. Heat ghosted across the clearing, a hum of peaches and sunset. The frost-wraith flinched. Yes, Lumen murmured. Hope is a temperature. The wraith hissed and raised both arms. Snow spiraled into a spear, elegant as malice. “You will be corrected.” “We prefer edited,” I said, and reached instinctively for Lumen. Her wing cupped my palm. A current ran through us—cold and hot and utterly right—like being plugged into the original power outlet of the world. Feathers flashed. The spear shattered into harmless glitter that fell as soft as applause. The rift shivered, surprised by our refusal to be predictable. The frost-wraith steadied. “Child,” it said to Lumen, “do you know who you are?” Lumen’s eyes went so bright the forest leaned closer. I am the savior no one scheduled, the joke fate tells to heal itself, and the Guardian who brings spring to the stubborn. She bared tiny, polite teeth. And I am not alone. The wraith stepped back toward the winter veil, reconsidering its life choices. It lifted one long finger. “Tomorrow, at moonrise. We end your hopeful nonsense.” “It’s not nonsense,” I said, voice steady for the first time. “It’s a plan.” The figure dissolved into falling frost that spelled a rude word in four languages, then blew away. The clearing exhaled. The rift still burned and glittered, but it no longer growled. Lumen sagged, suddenly just a cub with oversized promises. I knelt and pressed my forehead to hers. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?” Oh, absolutely, she said, tail curling around my wrist like a bracelet I’d keep forever. Tomorrow we persuade a war to become a duet. Tonight we practice—and you’ll need to learn how to stitch moonlight without stabbing yourself in the optimism. “Is there a manual?” There’s a vibe, she said. And snacks. Don’t forget the snacks. The forest lights brightened in soft approval. Somewhere, the summer side laughed into the leaves; the winter side polished its pride to a shine. Between them, a small, winged celestial feline and a woman who had aged into her courage made a promise the world could hear if it wanted to. The Moonlight Needle and the Fine Art of Panic Morning in the Enchanted Forest has the decency to be both unrealistic and aggressively on-brand. The light doesn’t just shine; it drizzles down like melted sugar, pooling in the creases of bark and the hollows of moss. Birds trill arpeggios that would bankrupt Broadway if they ever sold tickets. And in the middle of it all, I woke up with a winged snow leopard cub standing on my chest, lecturing me about moonlight embroidery. Hold still, human, Lumen said, pawing through my pockets with the determined subtlety of a TSA agent. We need something sharp, something steady, and something profoundly unnecessary. “Like, say, a life coach?” I wheezed under her eight pounds of destiny. Funny, she deadpanned. No, we’re making a Needle of Moonlight. Frost rifts don’t close themselves, and celestial thread doesn’t exactly come prepackaged at the craft store. She leapt to the branch above, feathers brushing my cheek like the world’s fanciest alarm clock. The canopy still dripped silver from last night’s duel. Lumen gathered it the way children gather excuses—messy, abundant, and with suspicious joy. She nudged a thread of liquid light toward me. Hold it. It was cool, electric, and whisper-thin, like clutching a sigh before it could escape. My hands shook. “Feels fragile.” It is fragile. Like truth, or soufflé. Don’t drop it. She shaped her wings into a cradle, focusing, her eyes twin glaciers set on fire. The thread sharpened under her gaze until it gleamed needle-fine, humming with that particular frequency of things that rewrite the rules. “This is either witchcraft,” I muttered, “or the world’s most elaborate Etsy tutorial.” Both, Lumen said. Now, about the panic—you’ll need it. I blinked. “I thought you said hope was the equipment.” Yes, but panic is the engine. Hope without panic is a fairy tale. Panic without hope is a headline. Together? You get improvisation with teeth. We descended into the clearing where the rift still yawned, half winter, half summer. The air was drunk on contradictions—snowflakes sizzling into steam, leaves burning themselves back into green. The seam shimmered, wider than before, as though last night’s frost-wraith had returned home to file a complaint. “We’re early,” I whispered. The Choir’s icicle-hymn was faint, the Ember Syndicate’s bass-beat more like warm-up rehearsal than full brawl. Good, Lumen said. Gives us time to practice stitching. So I did what any reasonable person does when handed cosmic thread and told to patch the fabric of reality: I stabbed at the air like I was trying to embroider the world’s most judgmental pillow. The needle hummed, each puncture leaving behind a faint glow, as if the universe were politely humoring me. Straighter, Lumen urged. And with less apology. “I’m sorry!” I said, immediately proving her point. My hands trembled, the thread wobbled, and I accidentally stitched two snowflakes together. They fused into a butterfly made of frost and fire that immediately flew off to find an open mic night. The rift laughed at me in three languages. Better mistakes, human, Lumen said. Don’t aim for perfection; aim for hope that looks ridiculous until it works. So I stitched faster, clumsier, letting panic push my hands and hope steady them. The rift flickered, resisting, its silver edges sparking like an overcaffeinated welding torch. For a second, I thought we were making progress—until the Choir and the Syndicate noticed. From the frost side, figures emerged—antlered wraiths, dozens this time, their voices braiding into a blade of sound. From the ember side, silhouettes swayed, all heat and hips, their laughter oily with charm. They converged on the seam, each determined to rip it wider. “Lumen,” I hissed, “we have company.” Correction: we have audience. Her fur bristled, wings arched, every inch of her a celestial guardian who’d forgotten how small she was. Keep stitching. I’ll handle the dialogue. The first frost-wraith stepped forward, spear gleaming, voice slicing. “Child Guardian. You cannot resist the Choir.” I can resist anything, Lumen said sweetly, except free samples. The Syndicate’s lead swayed in next, dripping heat like perfume. “Darling cub, why bother with balance? Melt it all, let pleasure burn forever. Your human already sweats in our favor.” I wiped my forehead, mortified. “That’s… just genetics.” The Choir hissed. The Syndicate laughed. And I stitched faster, the seam glowing, shaking, resisting. My thread snagged, caught—and in that instant of clumsy panic, the rift jolted wider, a roar splitting the clearing. Frost and fire lashed out, colliding. The air filled with shards of ice and ribbons of flame, clashing so loud the trees covered their ears. The ground buckled. The rift was no longer a seam; it was a throat, screaming to swallow both seasons whole. Lumen leapt onto my shoulder, her eyes incandescent. It’s time for the climax, human. We’re done patching. Now we perform. “Perform?” I squeaked. We make them laugh and we make them sing—together. Or we’re all soup. The Choir surged forward. The Syndicate swayed closer. Frost and flame reached for each other, eager to annihilate. And I stood in the middle, clutching a moonlight needle that hummed like a joke I wasn’t ready to tell. “Do you even know the punchline?” I asked Lumen. No, she said, voice trembling with mischief and awe. But if we deliver it with enough hope, the world will write it for us.   The Punchline That Healed the World The rift howled like a cathedral organ in a fistfight with a nightclub subwoofer. Frost crystals needled my cheeks; heat licked my neck with the unsubtlety of a bad ex. Perform, Lumen had said, which is a charming way to describe bargaining with physics while two elemental unions boo you in stereo. I raised the moonlight needle like a conductor’s baton. Lumen hopped to my shoulder, a celestial feline with wings flared wide, her breath bright and steady. On the frost side, the Choir lined up their antlers and judgments. On the ember side, the Syndicate stretched like summer on a chaise, equal parts invitation and arson. My knees panicked. My heart hoped. Together, they discovered rhythm. “Okay,” I told the universe, “let’s make some better mistakes.” I beat a quiet three-count—tap, tap, tap—like rain learning manners. Lumen chimed in with a thrumming purr that tuned the clearing to the key of possible. The Choir’s leader sneered, which is tenor for I’m listening against my will. The Syndicate’s lead smirked, which is contralto for I’m listening, and you’re lucky I styled my hair. “Here’s the deal,” I said, voice shaking and a little theatrical. “You’ve both been singing solos so long you forgot harmony was invented to keep egos from ruining parties. Winter has structure. Summer has soul. The forest needs both—or we end up with either a museum you can’t touch or a dance floor that never closes and eventually smells like regret.” Lumen flicked her tail, a glittering metronome. New rule, she announced, her voice ringing to the canopy. You get a duet or you get nothing. The Choir hissed frost. The Syndicate hissed steam. A snowflake landed on my lip and evaporated into the taste of relics. I took a breath, lifted the needle, and stitched the first bar of twilight. Twilight is where the jokes land—half shadow, half confession. I jabbed and drew, jabbed and drew, the moonlight thread sketching an invisible staff across the air. Lumen sang—not words, but that belly-deep, spine-lit sound cats make when the world gets precisely the amount of attention it deserves. The Choir’s harmonics shivered toward us, cold and precise. The Syndicate’s percussion swaggered in, hot and shameless. “Together,” I said, and brought my baton down. What happened next was not polite. It was right. The Choir’s crystalline syllables didn’t break the Syndicate’s bass—they braided it, each sharp edge finding a groove to ride. The Syndicate didn’t melt the Choir’s architecture—they lifted it, turned corners into curves and rules into dance steps. Frost-lace unfurled in time with a velvet drumline. Heat shimmer traced runes over the brittle beauty, granting it pulse. I sewed like a mad saint. Lumen flew loops, wingbeats flicking accents into the score—here, here, here. The rift convulsed. Instead of widening, it listened. Silver edges curled under my thread like hems finally ready to be finished. I tied a knot of dawn at the far end—ridiculous, radiant—and felt the seam hold. The Choir’s leader stepped forward, antlers ringing like chilled crystal. “Blasphemy,” it whispered, but it sounded like reverence misfiled. The Syndicate’s lead swayed closer, soft heat blooming over my cold-stung skin. “Naughty,” she purred, but it sounded like bravo. Lumen landed between them, tail curling with queenly patience. You both claim to love the world, she said. Prove it by sharing custody. The clearing hushed. In that silence I heard the forest itself—the roots trading gossip with the rain, the ferns muttering choreographies, the old bark clicking its arthritic approval. Even the glow-mushrooms dimmed to let the moment breathe. The frost-wraith from last night emerged, sheathes of ice spiraling around its arms. It studied the repaired seam, then bowed, something ancient cracking free from its posture. “We hate mess,” it admitted. “But we hate absence more.” It raised its spear and—delicately, almost tenderly—touched the knot of dawn. The spear iced over with sunrise. The Syndicate’s lead pressed two fingers of flame to the other end of the seam. “We hate limits,” she said. “But we hate boredom more.” The flame cooled to a coppery glow that felt like the last good song at a wedding when everyone still has their shoes on. The rift closed. Not with a slam, but with a satisfied sigh, like a curtain drawn at the end of a show that knows it nailed the landing. Snow settled on one shoulder, heat kissed the other, and for once I didn’t feel split between opposites. I felt—ridiculously, entirely—at home in the enchanted forest. Then the trees began to clap. Not metaphorically—their leaves smacked in leafy applause, trunks thumped root to root like drum talk. Lumen tucked her wings and, to my considerable relief, laughed, the sound bright enough to vector-map my cynicism into confetti. “That’s it?” I asked, a little dazed. “We… did it?” We did it, she said, and then she collapsed into my arms like a furry comet that had discovered gravity’s seductive side. Her body went heavy with the luxurious surrender of safety. Ascension Nap, she mumbled. Don’t let anyone monologue while I’m out. I cradled her, breathing in the scent of snow that forgives the sun and pine that forgives the calendar. The Choir and the Syndicate stood together, awkward as exes at a bake sale. I cleared my throat. “So. Terms?” “We rotate,” said the frost-wraith. “We respect thresholds. No more raids into spring.” “We celebrate,” said the ember lead. “We bring festivals, not fires. No more tantrums in harvest.” “And if either of you cheats,” I added, because adulting is mostly adding consequences to poetry, “you answer to the Guardian Cub of Enchanted Realms—who bites gently but effectively—and to her human, who wields weaponized customer service and a very pointy needle.” A chorus of dignified grumbles signified acceptance. The treaty sealed itself with the same golden resin that had notarized my life yesterday. Lumen’s ear flicked in her sleep, as if signing in dream cursive. When she woke, dusk had purled the sky into silk. Her eyes opened, bluer than a promise. Feathers reshaped, brighter, an iridescent gradient that held both frost and fire without flinching. She yawned, showing a kitten’s teeth and an archangel’s work ethic. Title upgrade, she said, blinking at me. Guardian. No “junior.” They said I demonstrated “impact.” “I’ll be insufferable about this for months,” I said, and meant it. We took the long way back across the branches, past golden forest light pooled like honey in bark-bowls, past dragonflies that had traded their harnesses for halos. Everywhere we went, the world looked a bit more in focus—as if a lens had clicked from almost to exactly. My mind, always editing, framed and reframed: the curve of Lumen’s wing against moss, the delicacy of her paws, the pattern of her spots like constellations that never forgot their origin story. If I were the sort to make fantasy art prints and fine art wall decor (perish the thought), this would be the moment I’d sell hope in archival inks. We stopped in our original clearing. The branch that had first held her secret was warm now, forgiving. Lumen settled, and I sat beside her. It felt like sitting at the edge of a story that had finally decided to love its reader back. “Teach me,” I said, surprising myself with how easy the surrender sounded. “Not just the needlework. The… guardian stuff.” Lumen studied me with that gaze cats use to measure whether you’re suitable for promotion. Clause four, she said. You’ll collect ordinary miracles: hot tea at the exact right second, strangers who hold doors with their whole heart, children who decide a stick is a starship. You’ll inventory them. You’ll tell people. You’ll make it art so they remember. “I can do that,” I said. “I can do that with embarrassing enthusiasm.” She bumped her head against my arm. Clause five: you’ll rest. Heroes who refuse to nap are just villains with anxiety. I lay back on the branch, the canopy stitching itself into a quilt of patience. Lumen curled against my ribs, the weight of her a promise I hadn’t known to ask for. Across the newly-mended seam, winter prepped its lace and summer tuned its brass, each waiting for its solo in the symphony we’d forced them to remember. The forest breathed. The world, ridiculous and holy, held. And for the first time in a long time, I believed in a future that could be framed.   Epilogue, in which we keep receipts: The Choir now hosts austere winter concerts that end with hot chocolate so scandalously rich the Syndicate claps. The Syndicate throws summer festivals where every bonfire has a fire marshal in a snowflake lapel pin. The treaty stands, pestered by mischief and maintained by better mistakes. Lumen patrols the canopy like a sherbet-colored comet, and I follow with my moonlight needle tucked into a case labeled Hope, Heavy-Duty. We mend things. We tell jokes that fix small cracks. We make enchanted realm feel like a place you can visit just by breathing kindly at a tree. When people ask who saved the seasons, we shrug and say: we performed. If you ever find a feather on your windowsill that smells faintly of snow forgiving the sun, keep it. That’s Lumen signing your guestbook. That’s your reminder that hope is a temperature, balance is a duet, and some of the best miracles arrive disguised as a nap.     Bring the Guardian Home If the Guardian Cub of Enchanted Realms stirred something magical in you, you can carry a piece of that enchantment into your own world. This photo-realistic fantasy artwork has been transformed into stunning, high-quality merchandise that blends whimsy, majesty, and everyday usefulness. Adorn your walls with a Metal Print or a classic Framed Print, both designed to showcase the vivid details of the winged snow leopard cub beneath golden forest light. For those who prefer contemporary brilliance, the Acrylic Print adds depth and modern elegance to this celestial masterpiece. Carry a touch of magic with you by choosing the enchanted forest design on a practical Tote Bag or let the cub’s wisdom inspire your creativity with a Spiral Notebook. For those who dream big, wrap yourself in celestial comfort with a Duvet Cover that turns your resting place into a sanctuary guarded by hope itself. Every product preserves the intricate detail of the photo-realistic fantasy art—from the cub’s luminous blue eyes to the enchanted forest atmosphere—making it more than décor or utility; it’s a reminder that hope is a temperature, and balance is a duet worth framing. Explore the collection, and let the Guardian watch over your everyday spaces.

por Bill Tiepelman

Song of the Scaled Goddess

The First Verse The ocean always had its whispers, but tonight they rose in a chorus. Beneath the ink-black surface, lanternfish flickered like drunken fireflies, and something far more dazzling stirred in the currents. She wasn’t the sweet little mermaid of bedtime tales — oh no. She was the Scaled Goddess, radiant and dangerous, with a smile sharp enough to cut through ship’s rigging and a laugh that bubbled like champagne poured in secret coves. Her song wasn’t sung with delicate trills. It rolled through the waves like velvet thunder, low and teasing, a sound that made sailors grip the mast harder and question whether life on land had ever really satisfied them. She didn’t lure men to their deaths; she invited them to reconsider their priorities. Was it really such a tragedy to drown if the last thing you heard was seduction made liquid? On this night, her scales shimmered with impossible color — molten gold along her hips, emerald flickers racing her tail, and a splash of ruby red across her breast like some divine tattoo. She arched in the moonlight, unapologetic in her beauty, a living hymn to temptation. Every flip of her single, magnificent tail sent phosphorescence spraying around her like confetti at a particularly decadent party. The fishermen on the surface muttered prayers and curses, but they never looked away. They couldn’t. Her presence was gravity, her gaze the tide itself, and when she tilted her head just so, lips curling into a smirk, they swore she had noticed them. That smirk promised more than music. It promised trouble. Delicious, back-arching, life-changing trouble. And with that, the Scaled Goddess began her song — not a ballad, but something far more intoxicating. A tune that hinted at secrets in the depths: treasure, ecstasy, power… and maybe, just maybe, the kind of kiss that leaves your lungs too weak to remember how to breathe. The Second Verse The song did not fade; it swelled, curling itself into every crevice of the sailors’ skulls like a silk ribbon wrapping around candlelight. The Scaled Goddess knew what she was doing. She was no innocent child of the sea. She had centuries of practice and every note of her voice was engineered to vibrate in places men didn’t even know could hum. Her laughter rang out suddenly, cutting the tension like a silver dagger. It wasn’t cruel, but it wasn’t kind either. It was knowing — the kind of laugh that comes from someone who has already read the diary you thought was hidden under your mattress. She flipped her hair, strands of it glimmering like wet auroras, and let her eyes roll upward at the pitiful spectacle of them leaning too far over their boat’s edge. “Careful, boys,” she purred, her words stretching like molasses, “lean any further and you’ll be mine before dessert.” One sailor, bolder or dumber than the rest, called back, “What dessert would that be, lass?” His voice cracked on the word ‘dessert,’ but he tried to mask it with bravado. The Goddess smirked — oh, that smirk — and licked the corner of her lip as if savoring a secret treat. “The kind,” she said, her tail flicking up a cascade of moonlit spray, “that melts in your mouth and leaves you begging for seconds.” The deck erupted in nervous laughter, but their eyes betrayed them. None of them looked away. She had them. Hook, line, and sinker — though she never used hooks. She used hips, scales, and a voice that sounded like midnight confessions made after too much wine. The Goddess circled their vessel lazily, every turn displaying the perfect unity of her body and tail, that one tail — long, sleek, hypnotic in its movements. It curled and snapped like a lover’s tongue, and the water foamed in adoration around her. “Tell me,” she cooed, “have any of you ever wondered why the sea takes so many men and so few women?” She did not wait for an answer. “Because the sea knows what it likes. The sea is greedy. The sea is me.” With that, she rolled onto her back, letting the moonlight caress every iridescent scale like a lover’s palm. Her chest rose and fell in rhythm with the swells, and she sighed — long, sultry, and deliberate. It was a sound more dangerous than any storm, for it promised the kind of rapture that storms could never offer. The men fumbled with their nets and ropes, pretending to busy themselves, but their ears strained for every note, every syllable dripping from her tongue like honey laced with venom. She paused her circling, propped her elbows on the side of their boat, and lifted her chin to rest in her palms. Her nails tapped a rhythm on the wood, sharp and pointed, reminding them all that beauty this divine always came with teeth. “You’re trembling,” she whispered to one of them, her gaze narrowing. “Don’t worry. I like them trembling. I like knowing I’m not the only thing shaking tonight.” The sailor swallowed so hard it was audible over the lapping water. His companions laughed nervously, trying to play it off, but the Goddess leaned closer, her lips so near he could smell the brine and sweetness of her breath — seafoam mixed with temptation. “Careful, sweetling,” she murmured, “your heart is beating too fast. It’s loud. It’s… delicious.” She pressed a finger to his chest and hummed, as if testing the resonance of a fine instrument. His knees buckled, and she grinned, triumphant and wicked. Then, with a flick of her tail, she vanished beneath the surface. Gasps rippled across the deck. Men scrambled to the rail, peering into the black water, their own reflections staring back in pale, sweating panic. “She’s gone,” one muttered, though his voice carried more hope than certainty. Another whispered, “She’s not gone. She’s never gone.” They were right. In the deep, glowing faintly in the abyss, her scales shimmered like embers in a drowning fire. She circled again, unseen but omnipresent, her song resuming as a low hum. It threaded itself into the planks of their ship, into their bones, into the veins that pulsed in their throats. It was no longer just sound — it was sensation, invasive and irresistible. They could feel it in their teeth, in their fingertips, in the tender parts of themselves that had never been touched before. It was a song of hunger. Of promise. Of ownership. When her head finally broke the surface again, she wore a grin that was half-challenge, half-invitation. “I’m not finished,” she whispered, her words dripping into the night like molten silver. “I haven’t even begun my chorus.” The Final Chorus Silence fell — but it was not peace. It was the kind of silence that hums in your bones before lightning splits the sky. The sailors held their breath, clutching ropes, clutching prayers, clutching each other if they had to. They knew she wasn’t gone. The Goddess never left without an encore. She was still there, circling in the dark, letting suspense wind them up like toy soldiers about to break their springs. Then it happened. The surface exploded with light as she rose, not delicately this time, but with force. Her body arched upward, tail slicing the water into diamonds, hair a kaleidoscope of dripping jewels. She landed with a splash that soaked half the deck, her laughter peeling out above the waves, brighter and louder than the ship’s creaking timbers. “Did you think,” she mocked, her voice smooth as velvet and sharp as coral, “that I’d leave you with just a verse? Darling, I am the song.” The sailors stared, entranced. One dropped to his knees as though in prayer. Another pressed his lips together, fighting the smile that wanted to betray his fear. And yet another — braver or far more foolish than the rest — leaned over the side of the boat with his arm extended, as though she might take his hand and drag him into something that wasn’t quite heaven, but wasn’t exactly hell either. She swam closer, slowly, every stroke of her tail deliberate, teasing. Her scales glowed like molten coins scattered by gods, and her lips curled in a smile that suggested she had already tasted each of their names. “So many of you,” she purred, “and only one of me. But don’t worry…” She paused, biting her lip as she floated just beneath their railing. “I multitask.” Her words hit them harder than cannon fire. She flicked water onto the deck with a casual wave, watching it run down their boots like liquid silver. Her gaze locked onto one man — the same trembling sailor she had teased earlier. His eyes widened as she smirked. “Still shaking, sweetling?” she asked. He nodded dumbly. She tilted her head, mock concern softening her voice. “Careful. I adore the taste of fear. It’s spicy. But don’t burn yourself out before I get to have any fun.” Her hand shot out, nails sharp, and she gripped his wrist. He gasped, pulled forward toward the abyss, but she didn’t yank him overboard. No, the Scaled Goddess was far too clever for brute force. She simply held him there, dangling at the edge, forcing the others to watch. Her thumb traced slow circles on his pulse, and his breath came in ragged shudders. She leaned closer, lips grazing the air just inches from his. “Every heartbeat,” she whispered, “is a drum in my song. You thump, I hum. Together, we make symphonies.” She released him suddenly, and he fell backward onto the deck, clutching his chest, eyes wild with terror and longing. The other men swarmed him, but their gazes kept flicking back to her. Always back to her. Always hungry. Always afraid. The Goddess laughed again, a rich, dangerous sound that tasted of wine, smoke, and saltwater. “Mortals,” she crooned, “always so easy. Offer them a melody and they’ll give you their soul. Offer them a smile, and they’ll drown for it.” Her tail slapped the water once, sending up a fan of glowing foam that painted the sails. She hovered in the dark, half her body above the surface, gleaming like a divine torch. The men leaned forward, even though their instincts screamed to pull away. She raised a single finger and wagged it playfully. “Ah, ah, ah. You don’t get to touch me. You don’t get to own me. I own you. And I always collect.” One of the older sailors, desperate to regain control, spat over the side and muttered a prayer to whatever saint might listen. She turned her head sharply, locking onto him with eyes the color of violent sunsets. Her smile didn’t falter, but it changed. It hardened. “Do not,” she said, her tone a dangerous purr, “pray to saints while you look at me. That’s like writing love letters to your wife while you’re in my bed.” The man dropped his gaze, shame burning on his cheeks. The others said nothing. They didn’t dare. She stretched languidly, arching her back, her scales catching the moonlight until she looked less like a creature and more like a living constellation. Her hair spilled over her shoulders like liquid silk, and when she spoke again, her voice was soft, intimate, as though it belonged to each of them alone. “The sea doesn’t just take. The sea gives. And I… I am very generous.” The promise hung in the air like perfume. Every man’s imagination ran riot, filling the silence with visions too scandalous to speak aloud. Her lips parted slightly, the suggestion of a kiss dancing there, but she didn’t move closer. She didn’t need to. They would lean in for her. They always did. Her laughter returned, softer now, wickedly sweet. “But you’ll never know if I’ll drown you or love you. Isn’t that the fun?” With that, she sank again, the glow of her scales vanishing into the black like stars swallowed by dawn. The water stilled, eerily calm. The ship rocked gently, as though nothing had happened at all. Only the men’s ragged breathing remained. Then, faintly, from somewhere deep in the abyss, her song rose once more. It was quieter, distant, but still unmistakably hers. It wound itself into their bones, their dreams, their memories. It would never leave them. And as the ship drifted onward into the night, every man knew the truth: they hadn’t seen the last of her. The Scaled Goddess was eternal, and she always returned for another chorus. And when she did, they would go willingly, trembling, smirking, and begging for more.     The Lingering Note Weeks later, the ship made port. The men stumbled onto land with the dazed expressions of dreamers who had woken too soon. They drank, they gambled, they told stories of storms and sea monsters, but none dared to speak her name aloud. Still, her melody followed them — humming in their ears when the tavern grew quiet, shivering along their spines when a woman’s laughter echoed too close. One even swore he saw her reflection in a puddle after rain, scales flickering like hidden fire. Their lives resumed, but not unchanged. Each man bore a subtle mark — not a scar, but a hunger. A hunger no ale, no coin, no earthly lover could satisfy. They would wake in the night with salt drying on their lips, hearts racing to a rhythm not their own. They knew it was her. It was always her. The Goddess did not release her prey; she marinated it in longing. And somewhere, beneath fathoms of dark silk water, she floated with a smirk curving her lips, tail coiling lazily in glowing arcs. She hummed softly to herself, polishing her voice like a blade. The ocean bent to her tune, as it always had. For she was not just myth, not just temptation — she was the eternal chorus of the sea itself. And when the moon waxed full again, when ships drifted too close and men leaned too far over their railings, she would rise once more. Because the Scaled Goddess never sang just once. She always had an encore.     Bring the Goddess Ashore Of course, legends like hers are too intoxicating to leave at sea. The Song of the Scaled Goddess has slipped from the ocean’s depths into art you can hold, frame, sip from, and even scribble secrets into. For those who want her shimmer and seduction close at hand, she now lives beyond the waves in crafted treasures — each piece catching a hint of her glow, her sass, her mystery. Adorn your walls with her radiant presence on a Metal Print or let her sing through light with an Acrylic Print. Carry her whispers with you in a Greeting Card or jot your own verses of temptation into a Spiral Notebook. And for the bold — sip her secrets at dawn with a steaming Coffee Mug, letting her song linger on your lips with every drink. She has always been more than a myth. Now, she can be a part of your world — ready to tempt, to inspire, and to remind you that every day deserves a little enchantment.

por Bill Tiepelman

The Juicy Guardian

A Dragonling with Too Much Juice Long before kingdoms rose and fell, and even before humanity figured out how to weaponize wine into bad karaoke, there existed a lush orchard where fruits reigned supreme. Mangos glistened in the early sun like golden gems, pineapples stood tall like spiky fortresses, and watermelons lay across the grass as if they had been plucked straight from a fruit god’s imagination. In the middle of this overripe paradise lived a creature no one expected, a dragonling so cheeky and unruly that even the bananas tried to peel themselves just to get away from his speeches. He was known, in a title he gave himself after exactly zero votes, as The Juicy Guardian. This dragonling was small by dragon standards—hardly bigger than a beach ball—but he compensated with attitude. His scales shimmered in shifting tones of citrus orange and leafy green, and his stubby wings flapped like a drunken butterfly when he was excited. His horns were tiny, more like decorative ice cream cones than menacing spikes, but don’t tell him that unless you’re ready to be pelted with lime wedges at alarming velocity. Worst of all—or best, depending on how much chaos you enjoy—was his tongue. Long, wiggly, and constantly flopping out of his mouth, it was the sort of tongue that made you wonder if evolution had overcorrected somewhere around the amphibian era. “Hear me, peasants of the orchard!” the dragonling declared one morning, climbing atop a pineapple with the solemn dignity of a child trying to wear their dad’s oversized shoes. His stubby claws gripped the spiky surface like it was a throne built just for him. “From this day forth, no kiwi shall be stolen, no mango bruised, and no watermelon sliced without my express permission. I am the sacred defender of juice, pulp, and fruity honor!” The audience of fruits was, naturally, silent. But the villagers who worked the orchard had gathered at a distance, pretending to be busy with baskets, all while trying not to choke on their own laughter. The Juicy Guardian, undeterred, believed they were basking in awe. He puffed out his tiny chest until his scales squeaked and stuck his tongue out in what he believed was an intimidating display. It was not. It was adorable in a way that made grown men giggle and women mutter, “Oh my gods, I want ten of him in my kitchen.” Now, here’s the thing about The Juicy Guardian: he wasn’t exactly a fire-breather. In fact, he had tried once, and the result had been a mild burp that caramelized half an orange and singed his own eyebrows. From that day on, he embraced his true talent—what he called “fruit-based combat.” If you threatened the orchard, he’d sneeze pulp into your eyes with sniper-like precision. If you dared to insult pineapples (his favorite fruit, obviously, since he used them as makeshift thrones), he would waggle his sticky tongue until you were so grossed out you left voluntarily. And if you really pushed your luck, well, let’s just say the last raccoon who underestimated him was still finding tangerine seeds in uncomfortable places. “Oi, dragonling!” shouted one villager from behind a basket of mangos. “Why should we let you guard the fruit? All you do is slobber on it!” The Guardian didn’t even flinch. He tilted his head, narrowed one massive eye, and replied with the bravado only a creature under a foot tall could muster: “Because no one else can guard fruit with this level of flair.” He struck a pose, wings flared, tongue dangling proudly, drooling nectar onto the pineapple he was standing on. The villagers groaned in unison. He took it as applause. Obviously. The truth was, most of the villagers tolerated him. Some even liked him. The kids adored his antics, cheering whenever he declared yet another “sacred fruit law” like: All grapes must be eaten in even numbers, lest the gods get indigestion, or Banana bread is holy, and hoarding it is punishable by public tickling. Others found him insufferable, swearing under their breath that if they had to hear one more proclamation about “the divine juiciness of melons,” they’d pickle him alive and serve him with onions. But the dragonling, blissfully oblivious, strutted around as if he were the king of tropical chaos, which—let’s be honest—he kind of was. It was during one particularly loud morning announcement that things took a turn. The Juicy Guardian was mid-speech—something about enforcing a fruit tax payable in smoothies—when the orchard fell strangely quiet. Even the cicadas stopped buzzing. A massive shadow rolled over the grove, blotting out the warm sunlight. The fruits themselves seemed to shiver, and the villagers froze mid-basket, staring upward. The Guardian, tongue wagging dramatically, froze in place. His pineapple crown tilted sideways like a drunk sailor’s hat. “Oh, great,” he muttered under his breath, his smugness cracking into genuine irritation. “If that’s another oversized banana slug trying to eat my melons, I swear I’m moving to the desert.” His wings twitched nervously, his tiny claws digging into the pineapple throne. The villagers gasped as the shadow grew larger and darker, spilling across the watermelon patch and swallowing the rows of citrus. Something huge was coming, something that didn’t care about fruit laws, smoothie taxes, or sticky tongues. The Juicy Guardian narrowed his one open eye, gave the shadow a wobbly salute with his tongue, and whispered, “Alright then… come and get juicy.” The Shadow Over the Orchard The shadow slithered across the grove like a spilled smoothie, blotting out the juicy glow of the morning sun. Villagers scattered, clutching baskets of fruit to their chests like they were rescuing sacred relics. A few less committed villagers shrugged, dropped their harvest, and ran—better to lose a few lemons than their heads. Only one tiny figure did not flinch: The Juicy Guardian. Perched atop his pineapple, he tilted his oversized head, narrowed his cartoonishly large eye, and let his tongue dangle defiantly like a warrior waving a very pink, very gooey flag of battle. “Alright, you oversized mood-killer,” he called out, his little voice carrying farther than anyone expected, “who dares trespass on my orchard? State your business! If it involves melons, I want a cut. Literally. I’ll take the middle slice.” The villagers gasped. A few of them muttered that the dragonling had finally lost the last marble he never had to begin with. But then the source of the shadow revealed itself: a massive airship, creaking like a wooden whale, descending with ropes and sails flapping. Painted along its hull were crude depictions of swords, grapes, and—for reasons no one could explain—a suggestive-looking carrot. The flag snapping above it read, in bold letters: “The Order of the Fruit Bandits.” “Oh, come on,” groaned The Juicy Guardian, dragging his claws down his snout. “Fruit bandits? Really? Is this my life? I wanted epic battles with knights and treasure hoards, not… organic theft on a flying salad bowl.” The airship docked itself awkwardly on the edge of the orchard, crushing three lemon trees and half a papaya grove. Out tumbled a ragtag crew of bandits, each dressed in patchwork armor and fruit-themed bandanas. One had a banana painted across his chest, another had kiwi seeds tattooed across his forehead, and the apparent leader—tall, muscular, with a jaw that could crack coconuts—strode forward carrying a watermelon-shaped mace. “I am Captain Citrullus,” he bellowed, flexing as if auditioning for a very sweaty poster. “We are here to claim this orchard in the name of the Fruit Bandits! Hand over the harvest, or face the consequences!” The Juicy Guardian tilted his pineapple throne back slightly, waggled his tongue, and muttered loud enough for the villagers to hear: “Captain Citrullus? Really? That’s Latin for watermelon. Congratulations, pal, you just named yourself Captain Melon. How threatening. I feel so intimidated. Somebody call the salad bar police.” The villagers tried not to laugh. The bandits scowled. The Captain stomped forward, pointing his mace at the dragonling. “And who are you, little lizard? A mascot? Do the villagers dress you up and parade you around like a pet?” “Excuse me,” the Guardian snapped, hopping down from his pineapple to strut across the grass with the exaggerated swagger of someone six times his size. “I am not a mascot. I am not a pet. I am the divinely appointed, absolutely fabulous, disgustingly powerful Juicy Guardian! Protector of fruit, ruler of pulp, and wielder of the most dangerous tongue this side of the tropics!” He flicked his tongue dramatically, slapping one bandit across the cheek with a wet slorp. The man yelped and stumbled backward, smelling faintly of citrus for the rest of his life. The villagers erupted into laughter. The bandits, however, were not amused. “Get him!” Captain Citrullus roared, charging forward with his fruit-mace raised high. The bandits surged after him, swords glinting, nets waving, baskets ready to scoop up melons. The Guardian’s wings buzzed nervously, but he didn’t flee. No—he grinned. A bratty, self-satisfied grin. Because if there was one thing this dragonling loved, it was attention. Preferably the dangerous, dramatic kind. “Alright, boys and girls,” he said to himself, rolling his shoulders like a boxer about to step into the ring, “time to make a mess.” The first bandit lunged, swinging a net. The Guardian ducked, darted under his legs, and whipped his tongue around like a whip, snagging an orange from a nearby branch. With a flick, he launched it straight into the bandit’s face. Splurt! Juice and pulp exploded everywhere. The man staggered, blinded, shrieking, “It burns! IT BURNS!” “That’s vitamin C, sweetheart,” the Guardian called after him, “the ‘C’ stands for cry harder.” Another bandit swung a sword down at him. The blade hit the ground, sending sparks into the grass. The Guardian leapt onto the flat of the sword like it was a seesaw, bounced high into the air, and belly-flopped directly onto the attacker’s helmet. With his claws gripping the man’s face and his tongue slapping against his visor, the dragonling cackled, “Surprise smooch, helmet-boy!” before hopping off, leaving the bandit dizzy and smelling faintly of pineapple. The villagers were screaming, cheering, and throwing fruit of their own at the invaders. It wasn’t every day you saw a tiny dragon wage war with produce, and they weren’t going to waste the chance to hurl a few grapefruits. One old woman in particular launched a mango so hard it knocked out a bandit’s front tooth. “I’ve still got it!” she cackled, high-fiving the Guardian as he zipped past. But the tide began to shift. Captain Citrullus waded through the chaos, his melon-mace smashing aside fruit like it was made of air. He stomped toward the Guardian, his face red with rage. “Enough games, lizard. Your fruit is mine. Your orchard is mine. And your tongue—” he pointed the mace straight at him—“is going to be my trophy.” The Juicy Guardian licked his own eyeball slowly, just to make a point, and muttered, “Buddy, if you want this tongue, you better be ready for the stickiest fight of your life.” The villagers fell silent. Even the fruit seemed to hold its breath. The bratty little dragon, dripping pulp and sass, squared off against the massive bandit captain. One small, one huge. One wielding a tongue, the other a melon-mace. And in that moment, everyone knew: this was going to get very, very messy. Pulpocalypse Now The orchard stood still, every mango, lime, and papaya trembling as the two champions squared off. On one side, Captain Citrullus, a towering slab of muscle and melon obsession, hefting his watermelon-shaped mace like it was forged from pure intimidation. On the other, The Juicy Guardian: a stubby, bratty little dragonling with wings too small for dignity, a pineapple crown slipping over one eye, and a tongue dripping nectar like a faucet in desperate need of repair. The villagers formed a loose circle, wide-eyed, clutching fruit baskets like improvised shields. Everyone knew something legendary was about to happen. “Final chance, lizard,” Captain Citrullus growled, stomping forward so hard the ground shook, dislodging a peach. “Hand over the orchard, or I pulp you myself.” The Guardian tilted his head, tongue dangling, then let out the most obnoxious laugh anyone had ever heard—a high-pitched, nasal cackle that made even the parrots flee the trees. “Oh, honey,” he wheezed between gasps of laughter, “you think you can pulp me? Sweetie, I am the pulp. I’m the juice in your veins. I’m the sticky spot on your kitchen counter that you can never, ever scrub clean.” The villagers gasped. One man dropped an entire basket of figs. Captain Citrullus turned purple with rage—part fury, part embarrassment at being out-sassed by what was essentially a lizard toddler. With a roar, he swung his mace down in a crushing arc. The Guardian darted sideways just in time, the melon weapon smashing into the ground and exploding in a shower of watermelon chunks. Seeds sprayed everywhere, pelting villagers like fruity shrapnel. One farmer caught a seed in the nostril and sneezed for the next five minutes straight. “Missed me!” the Guardian taunted, sticking his tongue out so far it smacked Citrullus across the shin. “And ew, you taste like overripe cantaloupe. Gross. Get some better lotion.” What followed could only be described as fruit warfare on steroids. The Guardian zipped around the battlefield like a sticky orange bullet, launching citrus grenades, slapping people with his tongue, and sneezing mango pulp directly into the eyes of anyone foolish enough to get close. Bandits flailed and slipped on fruit guts, falling over one another like bowling pins coated in guava jelly. Villagers joined in with gusto, weaponizing every edible thing they could grab. Papayas flew like cannonballs. Limes were hurled like grenades. Someone even unleashed a barrage of grapes via slingshot, which was less effective as a weapon and more as an impromptu snack for the Guardian mid-battle. “For the orchard!” bellowed one elderly woman, dual-wielding pineapples as clubs. She bludgeoned a bandit so hard he dropped his sword, then stole his bandana and wore it as a victory sash. The villagers cheered wildly, as if centuries of repressed fruit-related rage had finally found release. But Captain Citrullus would not be undone so easily. He charged at the Guardian again, swinging his melon-mace in wide arcs, knocking aside bananas and terrified villagers alike. “You’re nothing but a snack, dragon!” he roared. “When I’m done with you, I’ll pickle your tongue and drink it with gin!” The Guardian froze for half a second. Then his face contorted into pure bratty offense. “Excuse me? You’re gonna what? Oh, honey, NO ONE pickles this tongue. This tongue is a national treasure. UNESCO should protect it.” He puffed his tiny chest and added with a glare, “Also, gin? Really? At least use rum. What are you, a monster?” And with that, the fight escalated from silly to mythic chaos. The Guardian launched himself into the air, stubby wings flapping furiously, and wrapped his tongue around Citrullus’s mace mid-swing. The sticky appendage clung like sap, yanking the weapon out of the captain’s hands. “Mine now!” the Guardian squealed, spinning in midair with the mace dangling from his tongue. “Look, Mom, I’m jousting!” He swung the mace clumsily, knocking three bandits flat and accidentally smashing a melon cart into oblivion. Villagers roared in laughter, chanting, “Juicy! Juicy! Juicy!” as their ridiculous protector rode the chaos like a carnival act gone horribly right. Citrullus lunged after him, fists clenched, but the Guardian wasn’t done. He dropped the mace, spun in the air, and unleashed his most secret, most dreaded weapon: The Citrus Cyclone. It began as a sniffle. Then a cough. Then the dragonling sneezed with such violent force that a hurricane of pulp, juice, and shredded citrus peels erupted from his snout. Oranges whirled like comets, limes spun like buzzsaws, and a lemon wedge smacked a bandit so hard he re-evaluated all his life choices. The orchard became a storm of sticky, acidic chaos. Villagers ducked, bandits screamed, and even Captain Citrullus staggered under the onslaught of pure vitamin C. “Taste the rainbow, you salad-flavored meatloaf!” the Guardian shrieked through the storm, eyes wild, tongue flapping like a battle flag. When the cyclone finally subsided, the orchard looked like a battlefield after a smoothie blender explosion. Fruits lay smashed, juice ran in sticky rivers, and the villagers were covered head to toe in pulp. The bandits lay groaning on the ground, their weapons lost, their dignity even more so. Captain Citrullus stumbled, dripping with mango mush, his once-proud melon-mace now just a soggy rind. The Guardian swaggered forward, tongue dragging in the juice-soaked grass. He hopped onto Citrullus’s chest, puffed out his tiny chest, and bellowed, “Let this be a lesson, melon-boy! No one messes with The Juicy Guardian. Not you, not banana slugs, not even the smoothie bar at that overpriced yoga retreat. This orchard is under MY protection. The fruit is safe, the villagers are safe, and most importantly—my tongue remains unpickled.” The villagers erupted into cheers, hurling pineapples into the air like fireworks. The bandits, defeated and embarrassed, scrambled back to their airship, slipping on orange rinds and tripping over mangos. Captain Citrullus, humiliated and sticky, swore revenge but was too busy trying to get papaya seeds out of his hair to sound convincing. Within minutes, the ship lifted off, wobbling into the sky like a drunken balloon, leaving behind only pulp, shame, and a faint smell of overripe cantaloupe. The Juicy Guardian stood tall atop his pineapple throne, juice dripping from his scales, tongue wagging proudly. “Another day, another fruit saved,” he announced with dramatic flair. “You’re welcome, peasants. Long live juice!” The villagers groaned at his arrogance, but they also clapped, laughed, and toasted him with fresh coconuts. Because deep down, they all knew: as bratty, goofy, and insufferable as he was, this tiny dragonling had defended them with sticky, ridiculous glory. He wasn’t just their guardian. He was their legend. And somewhere in the distance, parrots repeated his chant in perfect unison: “Juicy! Juicy! Juicy!” echoing across the tropics like the world’s silliest war cry.     The Juicy Guardian Lives On The villagers may have wiped pulp out of their hair for weeks, but the legend of The Juicy Guardian grew juicier with every retelling. His tongue became myth, his pineapple throne a symbol of sass and stickiness, and his battle cry echoed through markets, taverns, and the occasional smoothie stand. And as with all legends worth savoring, people wanted more than just the story—they wanted to bring a little piece of the fruity chaos home. For those bold enough to let a bratty dragonling guard their own space, you can capture his juicy glory in stunning metal prints and sleek acrylic prints—perfect for giving any wall a splash of tropical whimsy. For a softer touch, the Guardian is equally happy lounging across a colorful throw pillow, ready to sass up your couch. If your home craves a statement as bold as his fruit-fueled battles, nothing says “long live juice” quite like a full-sized shower curtain. And for those who simply want to spread his sticky legend everywhere, a cheeky sticker makes the perfect sidekick for laptops, bottles, or anywhere that could use a splash of dragonling attitude. The Juicy Guardian may have been born of pulp and sass, but his story is far from over—because now, he can live wherever you dare to let him. 🍍🐉✨