Contes capturés

par Bill Tiepelman

Sugarsweat Shenanigans of the Cookie That Lived

When a sugar-sweating gingerbread messiah awakens mid-frosting, he launches into a wildly unhinged quest through the kitchen—facing butter, flour, cats, and his own overconfidence in this hilariously chaotic holiday tale.

par Bill Tiepelman

Glitterbomb Gary’s Day Pass from the Ornament Bin

When Glitterbomb Gary gets a Day Pass from the ornament bin, he doesn’t behave—he declares himself the main character of the entire holiday season. Chaos erupts, elves fall, snowmen panic, and Gary sparkles his way straight into accidental glory.

par Bill Tiepelman

Candied Antlers of the North Realm

A gingerbread reindeer with outrageous confidence, candy-coated swagger, and one very questionable spin move accidentally tears open a cosmic rift—then discovers what real courage looks like. Follow Crumbsnatch’s laugh-out-loud, sugar-dusted journey from “too big for his britches” to unlikely North Realm hero in this heartfelt, chaotic holiday tale.

par Bill Tiepelman

Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court

The Hare Who Refused to Be Ordinary On the coldest night of the year, when the aurora stretched across the sky like spilled paint and everyone with common sense was indoors hoarding soup, the Frozen Court gathered in the Valley of Unreasonable Sparkle. The snow there never simply “fell.” It pirouetted. It glowed. It attempted, on more than one occasion, to unionize. Every ruler of the North was present. The Ice Stag with his cathedral-sized antlers, the Glacial Owls with their disapproving expressions, the Polar Bear Matron wearing a cloak of storm clouds, and a flock of snow sprites who communicated exclusively in giggles and glitter. Even the northern wind had attended, appearing as a tall, translucent figure who looked like they spent far too much time in perfume commercials. At the center of it all, sitting on a smooth rise of snow that glowed from within, was a throne carved from a single block of ice. It was both magnificent and deeply uncomfortable, which is how you knew it was a throne. And atop that throne, in a halo of swirling frost, sat the most improbable monarch the realm had ever had: the Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court. Snowveil was not what anyone expected from a winter ruler. For starters, they were small. Not metaphorically small, either. Physically. A hare. A very fluffy hare with long legs, luminous sapphire eyes, and antlers that looked like moonlight had grown tired of being intangible and decided to crystallize into something with sharp edges and opinions. The antlers glimmered with frost fractal patterns, delicate branches sparkling as though each was lit by its own tiny aurora. Snowveil’s coat was etched with swirls of ice-lace, filigree crawling over fur like an artist had been allowed to go absolutely feral with a frostbrush. Every time Snowveil moved, the patterns shifted, catching the light and throwing fragments of cold fire into the air. The Frozen Court had elected Snowveil for a simple reason: no one could intimidate enemies and charm tourists quite like a hyper-realistic magical hare with crystalline antlers. The marketing potential alone was obscene. There were already plans for seasonal tapestries, enamel pins, and collectible prints in the Hall of Excessively On-Brand Merchandise. But that night, the Court wasn’t thinking about merchandising strategies or limited-edition aurora posters. They were thinking about the problem. The problem in question came in the form of a messenger wisp, who spun into existence over the court like a terrified snowflake that had read too much bad news. It trembled in the cold air, its tiny face pale blue and worried. “Your Frosted Majesty,” the wisp squeaked, bowing so low it nearly folded itself inside out, “we have an issue in the Southern Melt.” The Southern Melt was not a place anyone enjoyed saying out loud, mostly because it sounded like a seasonal dessert special. It was the liminal region where the eternal winter of the North grudgingly shook hands with the warmer lands beyond. The snow there had a habit of melting, refreezing, sulking, and writing anonymous complaints in the slush. Snowveil’s whiskers twitched. “What kind of issue?” they asked, voice soft but edged with the crispness of subzero air. The wisp hesitated. “The snow,” it said, “is… refusing to fall.” The Court erupted into panicked murmurs. The Glacial Owls fluffed up indignantly. The Ice Stag stomped a hoof, causing an avalanche somewhere unfortunate. The Polar Bear Matron let out a shocked huff that formed a new iceberg off the northern coast. “Refusing?” Snowveil repeated, one elegant ear flicking. “Snow is not allowed to refuse. That’s literally its whole job. It goes up, it freezes, it falls. That’s the brand.” The wisp nodded miserably. “It says it’s on strike, Your Majesty. Something about ‘unreasonable working conditions, lack of respect, and human tourists who keep calling it ‘so aesthetic’ instead of appreciating its complex crystalline geometry.’” Snowveil pinched the bridge of their nose with an invisible paw of pure exasperation. The antlers glittered in sympathy. “Of course it does,” they muttered. “The last time we let a cloud read anything about labor rights, it staged a blizzard walkout.” The Wind leaned closer, cape of translucent air whispering. “If the snow stops falling in the Southern Melt, the line between winter and spring will blur,” it warned. “Rivers will swell early. Flowers will bloom too soon. Mortals will start posting ‘Is this climate change or vibes?’ on their little glowing rectangles. It will be chaos.” Snowveil wasn’t afraid of chaos; they were the sort of creature who could turn a snowstorm into a fashion statement. But they were concerned about balance. The winter realms relied on subtle rhythms: snowfall patterns, frost crystal maps, aurora schedules, the weekly migration of overly dramatic ravens. If the snow decided to rebel, everything else would wobble. The Ice Stag cleared his throat, antlers chiming like distant bells. “We could send the Storm Wolves,” he suggested. “A little intimidation might persuade the flakes to fall in line.” Snowveil’s blue eyes narrowed. “We are not threatening the weather into compliance,” they said. “Every time we do that, some mortal writes a myth where the gods are jerks and the moral is ‘Never trust atmospheric deities.’ Our PR team still hasn’t recovered from the Great Hailstone Incident.” There were solemn nods. The Great Hailstone Incident was still whispered about in the Hall of Reputational Damage. Somebody had tried to speed-run an entire winter in one week. It had not gone well. Snowveil hopped down from the ice throne in a flurry of glittering frost, landing so softly the snow barely noticed. They paced slowly, hooves—no, paws, but dignified ones—leaving faint trails of glowing patterns behind them. Each step wrote a secret sigil in the snow, the language of ice and intention. “Snow is not the enemy,” Snowveil said at last. “It’s an artist. It likes to be admired. It likes to be taken seriously. And lately it’s been treated like nothing more than a filter for mortal photographs and a hazard for poorly chosen footwear.” The Polar Bear Matron rumbled thoughtfully. “Humans do enjoy sliding around shrieking as if walking on frozen water is a deeply surprising concept.” “Exactly,” Snowveil said. “If I were a snowflake, I’d be offended too. Imagine spending hours crystallizing yourself into a unique six-armed masterpiece, just to get stomped by someone in discount boots and then compressed into sludge.” The Court winced collectively. “So,” Snowveil continued, “we’re going to negotiate.” The Glacial Owls blinked. “Negotiate,” one repeated slowly, as though tasting the word like a questionable berry. “With precipitation.” Snowveil’s whiskers twitched again, this time in amusement. “Yes. With precipitation. The snow wants respect? We’ll see what that means. And if we can’t come to an agreement, then we’ll find the real reason behind this strike. Snow doesn’t just stop falling unless something bigger is meddling.” The suggestion settled over the Court like a thin new layer of frost—chilly but stabilizing. They all knew what Snowveil wasn’t saying: storms didn’t organize themselves. If there was a labor movement among the clouds, something—or someone—had stirred it. A faint shiver slid through the air. Snowveil felt it, the way a hare feels the shadow of a hawk long before it sees the wings. It was subtle, like a ripple in the pattern of the cold, a small wrongness humming under the usual song of the North. That was the twist, Snowveil realized. The snow’s rebellion wasn’t the problem. It was the symptom. They turned to the wisp. “You’ll guide me to the Southern Melt,” Snowveil said. “We leave at once.” There was a murmur of protest—about the hour, the temperature, the ongoing agenda items concerning icicle zoning regulations—but Snowveil flicked one antler and the complaints froze solid, glittering briefly before shattering. “This realm,” Snowveil said calmly, “is balanced on patterns most mortals never see. Frost fractals, snowdrift rhythms, the way ice sings under starlight. If those patterns start misbehaving, we don’t sit here and fill out complaint forms. We go out there and fix it.” The Wind gave an appreciative bow, snow swirling in elegant spirals. “Very dramatic,” it said. “Nine out of ten. I would have added a cape swirl.” Snowveil’s fur rippled in a way that absolutely counted as a cape swirl. “Happy now?” they asked dryly. And so the Court parted to open a path of glowing frost. Snowveil stepped forward, antlers haloed in pale light, eyes reflecting all the strange, beautiful cold of the North. The wisp bobbed nervously at their side, already regretting every life choice that had led it to be the courier of bad meteorological news. As Snowveil crossed the boundary of the valley, the sky brightened with a fresh wave of aurora. Greens and violets rippled across the dark, dancing above the hare like a royal banner. Snowveil didn’t look back, but if they had, they would have seen the Frozen Court watching in tense silence, each member aware that something old and patient was stirring beneath the snow. Because far to the south, just beyond the edge of winter, someone else was tired of being ignored by the world. And unlike the snow, they weren’t planning a strike. They were planning a takeover. Snowveil didn’t know the details yet. But as a faint tremor shivered through the eternal ice, the hare’s antlers rang like distant glass bells, and they had the unsettling sensation that the season itself had just winked at them. “Wonderful,” Snowveil muttered under their breath. “It’s going to be one of those winters.” Negotiating With Weather (And Other Terrible Ideas) The journey to the Southern Melt began with the sort of dramatic flourish Snowveil generally tried to avoid before their morning tea. The wisp led the way, jittering like a lantern flame in a nervous sneeze, while Snowveil bounded through drifts of glittering snow that behaved as though they were in a perfume ad—swirling, shimmering, and showing off for absolutely no reason. The first sign something was wrong came when they reached the River of Respectable Ice, which had recently rebranded itself from the River of Slightly Cranky Ice after a successful therapy arc. Normally, it was frozen solid—quiet, reliable, and pleasantly self-important. Now? A chunk near the southern bank had melted into a suspiciously warm puddle, bubbling as though being boiled by a kettle operated by an unlicensed pyromancer. Snowveil leaned down, antlers casting shimmering reflections on the surface. “This isn’t normal.” The wisp nodded vigorously. “This happened when the snow declared its strike. The Melt's expanding faster than it should, and the air keeps getting… hotter.” Snowveil raised a furry brow. “Hotter? In the North? Without a signed permission slip from the Winter Council? Bold.” The puddle suddenly belched steam, which coalesced into a tiny, irritable heat sprite. It looked up at Snowveil with the expression of someone who had eaten a ghost pepper and immediately regretted all life choices leading to that moment. “Look,” the sprite rasped, hands on nonexistent hips, “we’re doing our best, okay? There’s interference. Someone’s cranking up the temperature without filling out one single Seasonal Adjustment Form. I swear, it’s like mortals think weather just happens by accident.” Snowveil cleared their throat. “Do you know who’s causing it?” The sprite squinted. “Something big. Something fiery. Something with an ego large enough to require its own postal code.” Snowveil winced. “Oh no. Not… him.” The sprite shuddered. “Yep.” Snowveil muttered a string of ancient frost-words that sounded suspiciously like someone cursing into a scarf. “The Sun Prince?" The wisp gasped. “He wouldn’t dare!” “Oh, he absolutely would,” Snowveil said. “He once tried to annex the twilight hours because he wanted to ‘expand his brand.’ The man radiates confidence and secondhand embarrassment.” But there was no time to stand there and make fun of a nuclear star’s self-esteem issues. The snow had unionized. The Melt was creeping north. There was a solid chance someone would attempt to turn the Frozen Court into a spa resort “for warmth enthusiasts.” Snowveil marched southward, antlers glowing faintly with frost energy. Along the way they encountered several troubling anomalies: A patch of daisies blooming aggressively out of season, attempting to start a selfie trend. A flock of robins arguing heatedly with a confused snowdrift about territory law. A snowman lying on its side like a Victorian damsel, dramatically claiming it was “melting from emotional distress.” And then—there it was. The Southern Melt in full rebellion mode. Snow wasn’t falling. It was floating upward in tiny groups, holding tiny picket signs made of ice chips. Every single snowflake was shouting at once, which sounded like a thousand faint jingles mixed with the subtle auditory equivalent of passive-aggressive emails. Snowveil took a deep breath. “Here we go.” They hopped onto a mound of slush like a politician climbing onto a podium moments before regretting everything. “Attention, snow!” Snowveil called, antlers ringing like crystalline bells. “We are here to listen to your grievances.” A representative flake drifted forward, swirling itself into a larger, more dramatic configuration that vaguely resembled a snowflake with managerial responsibilities. It floated eye-level with Snowveil. “We demand respect,” it chirped. “And hazard pay.” Snowveil blinked slowly. “Hazard pay?” “Yes!” the snowflake huffed. “Do you have any idea how dangerous it is falling through the atmosphere? We’re basically yeeted from the sky at terminal velocity! And what for? To be shoveled, stomped, salted, and photographed with filters that completely misrepresent our crystalline geometry!” Snowveil rubbed their forehead. “Okay. I understand. But refusing to fall is destabilizing the winter cycle. We need you.” The snowflake crossed its little flake-arms. “We’re not doing a single elegant descent until our demands are acknowledged.” Snowveil’s voice softened. “What if I promised to speak to the Court? To advocate for better conditions, better appreciation, and maybe a mandatory course on how to photograph snow without flattening it into white mush?” The snowflake’s edges softened. “That… could be negotiated.” Snowveil nodded. “Good. Because something far bigger is threatening the winter realms. You aren’t striking alone. Something’s heating the North from the inside out.” A hush fell over the strike line. The snowflake trembled. “You mean—” “Yes,” Snowveil said grimly. “The Sun Prince.” The snowflakes erupted into outraged jingling. “That radiant himbo!” one shouted. “He’s always trying to steamroll winter! Literally!” “Precisely.” Snowveil shook frost from their whiskers. “We need unity, not rebellion. Winter won’t stand a chance if he unleashes one of his ‘seasonal rebrand’ schemes. The last time he tried to warm up the North, we ended up with the Great Slush Flood of Year 401. The otters still don’t speak to us." The snowflake hovered thoughtfully. “What do you need from us?” Snowveil looked up, antlers glittering with incoming determination. “Your help. Not as precipitation. As witnesses. Scouts. The Sun Prince won’t expect resistance from those he ignores. We need you to find where he’s concentrating heat. Where he’s planning his move.” The snowflakes conferred among themselves in soft crystalline chimes. Finally, the leader drifted forward. “We accept. On one condition.” Snowveil braced internally. “Name it.” The flake pointed one of its tiny arms at Snowveil. “If we save winter, we want recognition. Official titles. An annual parade. And—this is non-negotiable—a public apology from the Sun Prince for melting our brethren without proper documentation.” Snowveil nodded. “Done. Winterwide proclamation, parade funding, and a strongly worded letter dipped in frost for dramatic effect.” The snowflake twinkled smugly. “We’ll begin surveillance immediately.” The flakes scattered into the air like a burst of silent fireworks, streaking southward on cold winds. Snowveil exhaled in relief. One disaster stabilized. A larger one incoming. The wisp drifted beside them, trembling. “What now?” Snowveil stared toward the horizon where heat shimmered like a mirage. “Now? We go meet the Sun Prince.” The wisp squeaked. “Isn’t he… dangerous?” “Oh, absolutely,” Snowveil said. “He’s hotter than the gossip about two yetis caught canoodling behind the Icefall Tavern. But he’s also vain. And dramatic. And deeply susceptible to emotional manipulation.” The wisp blinked. “Manipulation?” Snowveil smirked. “Yes. You’d be amazed what you can accomplish with a strategic compliment about the luminosity of his solar flares.” The wisp groaned. “We’re doomed.” As they continued south, heat shimmered stronger, rising in waves that made the snow beneath them whimper anxiously. Something truly immense was interfering with the season—bigger and bolder than any prior tantrum the Sun Prince had thrown. But the final confirmation didn’t come until the clouds themselves parted in a sudden, dramatic flourish… and a colossal golden figure stepped forward, radiating smugness and SPF 500 energy. The Sun Prince, crown blazing like a supernova, looked down at Snowveil with a smile that suggested he practiced it in reflective surfaces. “Well, well,” he purred. “If it isn’t winter’s cutest little monarch.” He winked. “Don’t melt on me.” Snowveil’s eye twitched. “Fantastic,” they whispered. “It’s going to be one of those negotiations.” The Hare, the Himbo Sun Prince, and the Great Winter Rebrand Attempt The Sun Prince stood before Snowveil like a bronzed monument to questionable decisions, basking in his own radiance with the confidence of someone who believed sunscreen was a personality trait. Heat shimmered around him in waves so intense that several nearby icicles fainted dramatically and had to be revived with sassy pep talks from a passing frost sprite. Snowveil squared their tiny but ferociously majestic shoulders. Their crystalline antlers glinted defiantly, each delicate branch giving off the distinct impression that it would absolutely be used as a weapon if negotiations failed. “Sun Prince,” Snowveil began coolly, tone sharp enough to shave ice sculptures. “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” He flashed a smile bright enough to cause mild retinal trauma. “Just warming things up, darling. Your winter has been a liiittle too... wintery this year. I thought I'd give the land some razzle-dazzle.” He wiggled his fingers, and a plume of steam spiraled upward as if agreeing with him. Snowveil stared at him. Blinked once. Slowly. “You are destabilizing the entire seasonal structure of the Northern Realms.” He shrugged. “I like to think of it as… rebranding.” He leaned forward with a conspiratorial grin. “Picture it: ‘Hot Winter™: A Sunny Take on Snow.’” Snowveil made a strangled noise that could have frozen a lesser being on the spot. “You cannot trademark winter.” The Sun Prince gave a devastatingly smug wink. “Watch me.” Behind Snowveil, the wisp made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a dying squeal. The hare pressed a paw to their forehead, antlers buzzing with frost energy. “Why,” Snowveil hissed, “would you do this? What are you possibly gaining from melting my domain?” The Sun Prince sighed dramatically, wind machines of pure solar flare powering up behind him. “Fine. You want the truth? I’m bored.” Snowveil arched a brow. “Bored.” “YES bored!” he burst out. “Mortals worship me all summer long—sunbathing, sunflowers, that whole solar-powered happiness aesthetic. But winter comes? And suddenly it’s all cocoa and blankets and ‘oh look how elegant the frost is’ and ‘the moonlight is so atmospheric’ and ‘let’s light candles and pretend the sun doesn’t exist.’” He stomped a foot, causing the ground to steam aggressively. “It’s rude.” Snowveil inhaled deeply. “So you heated half of my kingdom because you felt… underappreciated.” “Yes,” he said without shame. “Also, one mortal called me ‘mid’ in a poem last month, and I haven’t recovered.” Snowveil’s eye twitched with the force of an avalanche. But then—something shifted. Behind the heat shimmer on the horizon, a familiar glittering cloud approached, moving with purposeful, icy grace. Snowflakes. Thousands of them, sparkling like a rebellious militia with excellent posture. The snowflake leader hovered forward, tiny arms crossed in indignation. “Excuse us,” it chimed pointedly, “but are YOU the reason half of us melted before we even fell? Because some of us were masterpieces, thank you very much.” The Sun Prince recoiled. “Are you talking to me?” The snowflake jabbed a tiny icy arm right at his solar-plexus region. “Oh, we are more than talking. We are FILING A FORMAL COMPLAINT.” Several snowflakes behind it chanted “COMPLAINT! COMPLAINT!” like an extremely chilly protest group. The Sun Prince sputtered. “I—I didn’t melt you on purpose!” “Oh REALLY?” the snowflake hissed. “Because we have eyewitness accounts of unauthorized heat waves, unscheduled solar bursts, and at least one snowman who claims you looked at him funny and he liquefied out of fear.” Snowveil cleared their throat. “Prince. Apologize.” He stared at Snowveil as though they had asked him to dim. “I’m sorry—you want me to apologize to the weather?” “Yes,” Snowveil said firmly. “It’s that or we file a complaint with the Equinox Council. And you know how they get.” The Sun Prince blanched. “Not the Equinox Council. They make everything so… bureaucratic.” Snowveil nodded solemnly. “Mm-hmm. You’d be stuck filling out sunbeam allocation forms until next solstice.” The Prince shuddered in horror. “Fine! FINE. I apologize to the snow for melting—” A snowflake coughed loudly. He rolled his eyes. “—for melting you… without authorization. And for… uh… calling winter ‘emotionally clingy.’” The snowflakes squealed triumphantly and immediately began drafting parade blueprints. Satisfied, Snowveil stepped forward. “Now. You’re going to turn the heat down. Gradually. We don’t want steamstorms again. And after that, you’re going to sit with your feelings like a responsible celestial entity instead of committing meteorological arson every time someone forgets your fan club.” The Sun Prince sighed. “You’re surprisingly stern for someone so fluffy.” Snowveil smiled sweetly. “I will end you.” He believed them. A slow, controlled coolness spread through the land. Frost reformed. Snowflakes fell with dramatic flair. The river sighed in relief and refroze in the shape of a polite bow. The Melt retreated, muttering apologies as it went. By the time the Frozen Court gathered to greet their returning monarch, winter had returned to its elegant, orderly, and mildly judgmental self. The Court erupted in cheers. The Polar Bear Matron shed proud tears (which froze midair and had to be chiseled off). The Ice Stag bowed deeply. The Glacial Owls attempted applause but produced only very dignified wing flaps. Snowveil climbed the icy throne once more, fur glittering with victorious frost. “Winter,” they proclaimed, “is restored. And our realm stands strong—because even rebellious snowflakes have their place in the pattern.” The snowflake leader drifted up beside them. “We expect that parade by mid-month.” Snowveil sighed. “Yes, yes. I’ll inform the auroras to prep their choreography.” The auroras overhead brightened in smug acknowledgment. As celebrations erupted around them, Snowveil glanced southward. The Sun Prince was already retreating, muttering something about updating his fan club newsletter and exfoliating his solar layers. Snowveil shook their head with fond exasperation. “Drama,” they murmured. “Pure, incandescent drama.” But peace had returned. Balance was restored. And winter, once again, would sparkle with elegance, mystery, and just a hint of absurdity—exactly as it should.     Bring the Snowveil Hare of the Frozen Court into your own winter realm. Whether you're looking to elevate your décor, wrap yourself in enchanted warmth, or send a bit of frosted magic to someone special, this piece shines across multiple premium formats. Each product below transforms Snowveil’s crystalline elegance into a tangible keepsake—perfect for collectors, fantasy lovers, and anyone who lives for winter’s spellbinding charm. Explore the full collection:• Framed Print: A gallery-worthy display capturing every icy fractal and luminous detail.Shop Framed Print• Metal Print: Vibrant, reflective, and impossibly crisp—Snowveil practically glows from within.Shop Metal Print• Acrylic Print: Depth, clarity, and a glass-like finish that gives Snowveil dimensional presence.Shop Acrylic Print• Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in winter magic with a soft, luxurious blanket featuring Snowveil’s regal glow.Shop Fleece Blanket• Bath Towel: Add a touch of frosted elegance to your bathroom décor—yes, even your towels can be majestic.Shop Bath Towel• Greeting Card: Send winter magic to friends and family with a card that sparkles with charm and mischief.Shop Greeting Card Surround yourself with the enchanting energy of Snowveil—and let the Frozen Court’s most fashionable monarch bring a little winter wonder into your space.

par Bill Tiepelman

Aurora Guardian Rising

A late-winter aurora transforms into a celestial guardian who recruits Dani—reluctant, sarcastic, and running on caffeine—to help jumpstart spring. What follows is a whimsical, sassy, magical journey through glowing snow, awakening forests, and the first spark of a season determined to make an entrance. A humorous, adult fantasy tale about renewal, mischief, and the unexpected ways the world begins again.

par Bill Tiepelman

Twinkle-Shell the Festive Wanderer

The Glitter-Covered Menace of Mistletoe Marsh Deep inside the glimmering heart of Mistletoe Marsh—where the trees shed glitter instead of leaves and the ground is permanently sticky from a century of spilled eggnog—there lived a creature so cheerfully chaotic that even Santa had him on a “soft ban” list. His name was Twinkle-Shell, the Festive Wanderer, and his hobbies included: jingling loudly at inappropriate hours, hoarding peppermint just to say he had it, and single-handedly destabilizing the local ecosystem every time he tried to “spread holiday joy.” Twinkle-Shell, a snail by birth but an *aspiring* reindeer by attitude, strutted—or slithered, depending on how frozen the marsh happened to be—beneath a towering Christmas tree growing directly out of his shell. Not metaphorically. Not tattooed. Literally. A whole, sparkly, fully-functional tree, complete with ornaments that jingled, lights that flickered, and a star on top that glowed brighter whenever he felt dramatic… which was often. His antlers, grown out of pure festive stubbornness, sprouted ornaments like some kind of holiday fruit tree with boundary issues. Every time he moved, a cascade of jingles followed behind him, making stealth absolutely impossible. Neighborhood squirrels used him as a navigational beacon. A family of chipmunks synchronized their winter dances to the rhythm of his accidental jingling. And at least one very confused owl tried to mate with the ornament hanging from his left antler. (Twinkle-Shell never recovered emotionally.) He also had, for reasons beyond nature or decency, a reputation as a walking hazard. If you saw glitter drifting in the air, it wasn’t snowfall—it was him. If a candy cane mysteriously disappeared from your porch and reappeared lodged in a tree branch two miles away, it was him. If your snowman woke up wearing red lace garland like a feather boa, it was definitely him. Twinkle-Shell insisted these things just “sort of happened” around him, a statement that carried the same sincerity as a toddler claiming the dog opened the permanent marker. But despite the chaos—or perhaps because of it—everyone at Mistletoe Marsh adored him. He was the unofficial herald of the holiday season. The moment they heard his jingle-jangle-jing-JANGLE (followed by a thud, usually him slipping on his own ornament debris), they knew: the season had begun. This year, however… things were different. Twinkle-Shell had woken up with a feeling. A vibe. A destiny-level sensation that this holiday season, he was meant for something big. Something important. Something completely beyond his normal jurisdiction of moderately controlled chaos. And that, unfortunately for Mistletoe Marsh, meant he was about to try—really try—to be helpful. The last time he tried to be helpful, twelve ducks got perms and the mayor of the Marsh still refused to discuss “the tinsel incident.” But none of that deterred him. With the star on his shell glowing like it had just consumed espresso, Twinkle-Shell declared: “THIS YEAR… I SHALL SAVE CHRISTMAS!” No one had asked him to. No one had suggested Christmas was even remotely in danger. But history had proven one fact: when Twinkle-Shell decided something was destiny, destiny usually sent an apology note in advance. As he jingle-slid toward the edge of the Marsh to begin his “heroic quest,” local residents whispered, worried, hopeful, and bracing for impact. Because whatever was about to happen… it would be memorable. And probably sticky. Twinkle-Shell’s Incredibly Poor Life Choices Twinkle-Shell had barely made it twenty jingle-steps out of Mistletoe Marsh before destiny introduced itself in the form of a frantic puffin wearing a scarf knitted entirely of panic and broken dreams. The puffin crash-landed into the snow in front of him, skidding through slush like a feathery curling stone before popping up and blurting, “THE NORTH POLE IS A DISASTER!” Now, Twinkle-Shell was no stranger to the word “disaster.” He heard it often. Usually directed at him. But this time, it had a certain global tone—like the kind of disaster where holiday laws would be violated, elves would unionize, and Santa might start drinking the non-virgin eggnog before noon. “Explain yourself,” Twinkle-Shell declared, attempting to stand heroically tall, but remembering too late that snails do not stand. He settled instead for rearing up in slow motion, which looked less like bravery and more like he was trying to reach a cookie on a high shelf. The puffin took a dramatic breath. “Santa’s workshop… is covered in gingerbread sludge! The ovens malfunctioned, the cookie mixers revolted, and half the toys smell like cinnamon-based despair!” Twinkle-Shell gasped with the force of a creature who once ate an entire wreath and regretted nothing. “Is Santa okay?” “He’s… sticky,” the puffin whispered, as though sharing a national secret. “Very… very sticky.” That settled it. This was a job for a hero. A legend. A creature with the power to make things worse before making them better. This was a job for— “TWINKLE-SHELL THE FESTIVE WANDERER!” The puffin blinked. “I don’t know who that is.” “Still me,” Twinkle-Shell said, flexing an antler so that a tiny ornament fell off and rolled dramatically into a snowbank. And so, the two set off toward the North Pole, Twinkle-Shell jingling with heroic enthusiasm and the puffin waddling in a state of ongoing regret. Their journey was… complicated. First, Twinkle-Shell attempted to “speed up” by sliding down a frozen hill. This resulted in him spinning like a holiday Beyblade, screaming, “I WAS NOT BUILT FOR THIS!” as ornaments flew off his antlers like festive shrapnel. The puffin, trying to help, flapped frantically behind him, shouting instructions such as “STEER LEFT!” and “WHY ARE YOU SPARKLING MORE?!” Twinkle-Shell eventually crashed into a drift of powdered snow, emerging glitterier than before, which should have been impossible by the laws of physics but was absolutely on-brand for him. Then came the Snow Sprite Incident. Snow Sprites were known for their ephemeral beauty, frosted wings, and a temperament roughly equivalent to a caffeinated ferret. They were fragile, delicate, and notoriously manipulative when slightly bored. As Twinkle-Shell and the puffin cut through a clearing, a cluster of them descended like sparkly piranhas. “Ooooh! A walking tree!” one Sprite squealed. “A talking ornament bush!” another cried. “A sentient holiday fever dream!” said a third, deeply concerned but intrigued. Twinkle-Shell tried to introduce himself, but Sprites don’t wait for introductions. Or permission. Within seconds, they were hanging new ornaments on him, braiding his garlands, fluffing the branches of his shell-tree, and rearranging his decorations with the aggressive enthusiasm of interior decorators who haven’t eaten in days. “We added more sparkle to your sparkle,” one Sprite reported proudly. “You’re welcome,” another said, while applying shimmering frost to his left flank. Twinkle-Shell attempted polite gratitude, but the sheer weight of the extra ornaments nearly tipped him over. He had to dig his foot into the snow to keep upright. “I appreciate the… enthusiasm,” he managed, “but we’re on an urgent quest!” “A quest?” the Sprites gasped collectively like a dramatic choir. “For WHAT?” “To save Christmas!” There was a silence, followed by all twenty Sprites bursting into chaotic applause while yelling conflicting advice: “Kidnap the gingerbread!” “Punch a snowman!” “Blame the elves! They can take it!” “Bring Santa soup!” “Don’t bring Santa soup! He hates soup!” By the time the Sprites finished “decorating” him, Twinkle-Shell now jingled when he blinked. Literally. The puffin stared at him with the hollow expression of someone reconsidering every life decision. “Let’s just… go,” the puffin muttered. At last, after waddling, sliding, jingling, and arguing their way across the tundra, the North Pole appeared on the horizon—shimmering with lights, smoke, and the faint smell of gingerbread on fire. Twinkle-Shell whispered reverently, “We made it…” “I’m going to regret this,” the puffin whispered back. They approached the candy-cane gates, only to find them half-melted, coated in sticky sugar, and buzzing with tiny, exhausted elves trying to chisel themselves free from cookie cement. One elf, covered in dried frosting and rethinking all career choices, pointed at Twinkle-Shell and groaned, “Oh no. Not again.” Twinkle-Shell’s eyes widened. “We’ve never met!” The elf shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. I can FEEL the chaos.” That was when another elf staggered out of the workshop, hair smoking slightly, and shouted: “THE GINGERBREAD HAS GONE SENTIENT! AND IT HAS DEMANDS!” Twinkle-Shell inhaled sharply. “This… this is my moment.” And as the peppermint-scented smoke billowed out of the workshop behind him, Twinkle-Shell jingle-glowed with heroic determination. This would be the day he proved himself. This would be the moment he saved Christmas. Or—more statistically likely—this would be the moment everything went gloriously, catastrophically wrong. The Great Gingerbread Uprising (And the Snail Who Probably Should’ve Stayed Home) The moment Twinkle-Shell slid into the workshop, he was hit with a wave of heat, spice, and the unmistakable smell of burnt sugar trauma. The walls were coated in gingerbread goo. Half-constructed toys were glued to the ceiling. A Nutcracker soldier was stuck to the floor, repeatedly muttering, “I did NOT sign up for this.” Somewhere in the distance, an oven door rattled like something inside was trying to negotiate its release. Elves scurried everywhere, armed with frosting spatulas, licorice whips, and the kind of exhausted expressions found on retail workers on December 24th at exactly 11:59 p.m. And right there, at the center of the chaos, stood the enemy. A giant, twelve-foot-tall, semi-sentient gingerbread man. He had gumdrop eyes of pure malice. He had frosting facial hair that suggested he’d been through three divorces. And he wore a peppermint belt like he was in some kind of seasonal wrestling league. “I AM GINGERPAPA!” he bellowed, his voice echoing like thunder made of cookie crumbs. “AND CHRISTMAS SHALL BURN IN THE OVEN OF MY WRATH!” Twinkle-Shell gasped. Mostly because he got too excited and inhaled a sprinkle. The giant gingerbread titan turned his gumdrop glare on him. “You,” GingerPapa growled. “Tree snail. Decorative menace. Living mall display. You dare approach me?” Twinkle-Shell jingle-flexed proudly, which involved wiggling his antlers and immediately losing two ornaments. “I am here… to restore holiday harmony!” An elf whispered to another, “Oh great. He’s monologuing. This is going to end in frosting.” GingerPapa raised one icing-coated arm and roared, “ATTACK, MY GINGERMINIONS!” From behind him poured an army of smaller gingerbread creatures—some shaped like classic gingerbread men, others shaped like little stars, bells, candy canes, and one disturbingly buff gingerbread duck who looked like he worked out twice a day and drank raw eggnog. Twinkle-Shell took a heroic stance (again, mostly by accident). The puffin behind him screamed into his scarf. The elves shrieked. The oven doors rattled harder. It was chaos. Beautiful, stupid, holiday chaos.   The Battle Was… Not Great Twinkle-Shell attempted to charge heroically. Unfortunately, as a snail, his top speed was “confidently leisurely.” The gingerbread army reached him long before he made any meaningful forward progress. They swarmed up his shell, climbing the branches of his Christmas tree, poking his ornaments, licking his lights (disgusting), and slapping him with tiny sugary hands. “Ow! Ow! Hey! Personal space! That’s a limited edition bauble!” Twinkle-Shell cried, flailing his antlers wildly—knocking gingerbread men off like shuriken made of holiday shame. Meanwhile, GingerPapa bellowed laughter. “FOOLISH SNAIL! YOU CANNOT STOP THE RISE OF THE COOKIE KINGDOM!” The elves, realizing they had backup, began throwing handfuls of flour like improvised flash grenades. The puffin aggressively pecked a gingerbread star into crumbs. A squad of teddy-bear-shaped cookies began chanting, “DOWN WITH MILK! DOWN WITH MILK!” for reasons no one fully understood. Overwhelmed and sticky, Twinkle-Shell’s star began to glow—not with chaos, but with something he had never experienced before: Actual determination. And then something incredible happened. His shell-tree lit up. Every ornament flared. Every garland shimmered. Every holiday light sparked to life all at once— —and unleashed a blinding explosion of glitter. Not normal glitter. Not craft-store glitter. This was primordial holiday glitter. The kind that sticks to souls. The kind that ruins marriages. The kind that you still find on you 17 years later. The workshop was consumed by a shimmering shockwave that froze the gingerbread army in place—literally. The sugar in their dough flash-crystallized, turning them into sparkling statue versions of themselves. GingerPapa let out a final dramatic roar: “NOOOOOOO! I SHOULD HAVE ADDED MORE MOLASSES!” before freezing solid with a pose suspiciously similar to interpretive jazz hands. When the glitter cleared, the workshop was silent. Twinkle-Shell blinked. The glitter blinked back.   Aftermath, Regret, and Questionable Praise Santa finally emerged from the back, coated in hardened gingerbread goo like a festive swamp creature. He squinted at Twinkle-Shell through the sticky sugar on his beard. “…did you… save Christmas?” Twinkle-Shell stood tall (as tall as a snail can stand). “Yes. I did.” Santa stared at the frozen gingerbread titan. Then at the glitter coating every inch of his workshop. Then at the elves—half cheering, half trying to scrape cookie cement off the walls. Then at the puffin, who looked like he needed therapy immediately. Finally, Santa sighed. “Could you… maybe next time… warn me before doing whatever you just did?” Twinkle-Shell thought about it. Thought long and hard. Then said confidently: “No.” Santa closed his eyes in defeat, but the elves celebrated. They lifted Twinkle-Shell onto a sled, cheering his name, chanting as though he were a holiday demigod: “TWINKLE-SHELL! TWINKLE-SHELL! SAVIOR OF THE SEASON!” The puffin even flapped up onto his shell-tree and declared, “You absolute disaster… I am so proud of you.”   A Hero Returns Twinkle-Shell returned to Mistletoe Marsh that night, glowing with triumph, glittering from shell to foot, and dragging so much leftover cookie dust that he left behind a trail of gingerbread crumbs like Hansel and Gretel going through a holiday divorce. Everyone gathered around him. They cheered. They jingled their bells. A choir of squirrels performed a celebratory interpretive dance despite having no formal training. Twinkle-Shell announced proudly: “I HAVE SAVED CHRISTMAS!” And the Marsh erupted in applause. However… a small, nervous squirrel raised a paw. “So… uh… does this mean you’ll stop trying to ‘help’ now?” Twinkle-Shell laughed, his ornaments chiming like tiny alarm bells of doom. “No, my sweet winter children. No it does not.” And from that day forward, the holidays were never peaceful again.     Bring Twinkle-Shell Home If Twinkle-Shell’s heroic glitterbomb of holiday chaos made you smile, swoon, or briefly reconsider the stability of the gingerbread ecosystem, you can now bring this gloriously unhinged icon into your own home. Celebrate the season (and the snail who almost accidentally destroyed it) with beautifully crafted holiday collectibles featuring Twinkle-Shell the Festive Wanderer. For a classic touch, hang him proudly on your wall as a framed print — a perfect way to let guests know your décor aesthetic is “classy chaos with a side of peppermint madness.” Prefer something sleek and modern? Show off every shimmering detail with a metal print that captures the image’s glossy textures and festive glow. If you enjoy a challenge (or simply wish to relive the gingerbread uprising in slow motion), the jigsaw puzzle offers a wonderfully chaotic holiday pastime — ideal for family gatherings, cozy evenings, or proving you're mentally stronger than sentient cookies. And for spreading the joy directly, nothing beats the charm of a greeting card. Send it to friends, family, coworkers, or that one neighbor who still owes you a borrowed wreath. Twinkle-Shell will deliver seasonal cheer, questionable decisions, and glitter-based optimism wherever he goes. Let the legend of Twinkle-Shell live on — in your home, on your walls, and in the hearts of everyone who receives a card and thinks, “Why is that snail sexier than I expected?”

par Bill Tiepelman

Holiday Hijinks in Red Velvet

Every holiday season needs a bit of chaos — not enough to derail Christmas, just enough to keep the reindeer humble and the elves slightly traumatized. And if there was one creature uniquely qualified to deliver that delicate level of festive mayhem, it was Grindle Tock: five-foot-nothing if you counted the hat, ears sharp enough to slice gift wrap, and a grin so sly it probably had its own backstory. At this moment, Grindle sat perched atop a giant present wrapped in shimmering red paper, his bare toes wiggling like they were independently scheming their own crimes. The warm glow of Christmas lights made his skin look almost cherubic… which was wildly misleading to anyone who had met him for more than eight seconds. The party behind him was reaching that blurry phase where elves began harmonizing ancient carols slightly off-key and slightly too passionately. Already three of them had formed a barbershop quartet despite none of them knowing what a barbershop was. Two reindeer — tipsy, though they’d deny it — were at the snack table arguing over the philosophical implications of gluten-free gingerbread. A cluster of toy soldiers stood frozen in their usual stoic formation, but even they seemed to be silently judging the questionable choices unfolding around them. Grindle, however, wasn’t distracted by the spectacle. He had the intense, squinty look of a strategist — or perhaps a raccoon eyeing an unsecured trash can. His Santa-red outfit was a size too small, hugging him with the affectionate enthusiasm of a garment ready to burst if he inhaled wrong. His belt buckle gleamed like it knew secrets. His hat sagged dramatically to the side like it was exhausted from enabling his nonsense. In his lap rested a handmade scroll titled, in calligraphy far too elaborate for someone with his reputation: Operation Cheerquake. The subtitle read: “A Gentle, Non-Destructive Redistribution of Holiday Spirit.” The crossed-out options underneath included “mildly inconvenient,” “reindeer-repellent,” and “illegal without a permit.” What exactly counted as “non-destructive” in Grindle’s mind was a question that had plagued Santa’s legal team for years. The list of previous incidents included exploding peppermint garlands, a hot cocoa fountain that achieved sentience, and a snowman uprising that required three days of mediation and one restraining order. Grindle hadn’t technically been responsible for all of them, but he had been “adjacent to the chaos,” which, in workshop terminology, meant guilty enough. Tonight, though… tonight he felt destiny humming in his bones. Or maybe that was the eggnog. Hard to tell. Grindle preferred to believe it was destiny because it sounded dramatic and he lived for theatrics. Every elf had a role: toy-maker, tinker, baker, reindeer wrangler. Grindle’s role? “Unpredictable Variable.” It was written on his file in Santa’s HR cabinet under the tab labeled “Caution.” “This,” he murmured to himself, “is going to be my masterpiece.” He leaned back, balancing perfectly on the present as if gift boxes were his natural habitat. His toes flexed with alarming enthusiasm. He stared into the twinkling lights with the energy of a small creature about to make a decision that would haunt the entire building by sunrise. His reflection in a nearby ornament looked entirely too pleased with itself, which only encouraged him. He unrolled the scroll and tapped the first item on the list: 1. Relocate the Naughty List. A perfectly innocent idea, really — except that the “relocation” destination was listed simply as “somewhere funny.” Grindle’s sense of humor had once led him to store 400 plush reindeer inside Santa’s sleigh. Santa had not laughed. Mrs. Claus, however, had laughed so hard she snorted cocoa, which only made Grindle feel validated. The second item read: 2. Replace Santa’s boots with spring-loaded substitutes. Not harmful. Just… energetic. Festive even. Think of the cardio. Item three: 3. Initiate Mistletoe Flash Mobs. No further notes. The implications were concerning. He scanned the crowd for his first accomplice — or victim. It was often the same thing. His eyes landed on Jibble, a mild-mannered wrapping elf known for being nice, friendly, and catastrophically gullible. Jibble was currently slow-dancing with a mop, which Grindle mentally categorized as “emotional vulnerability: high.” Perfect. “Tonight’s the night,” Grindle whispered again, like the villain of a Christmas musical no one had approved but everyone would talk about. He hopped lightly, toes curling over the edge of the gift box, preparing to leap into action… or onto someone’s shoulders, depending on opportunity. The air shimmered with anticipation — or possibly glitter fallout. Hard to distinguish at this time of year. And somewhere deep in the workshop, a single candy cane cracked in half for no clear reason. A sign? A warning? Or just poor structural integrity? Only time would tell. Grindle slid off the gift box with the theatrical grace of someone who routinely tripped over nothing. His toes hit the workshop floor with a soft pat-pat, and he strutted forward like a tiny, red-velvet menace on a mission. The lights above twinkled warily, as though aware that they were witnessing the early stages of a North Pole–level disaster. Grindle puffed up his chest, adjusted his hat to the precise angle of “festively unhinged,” and marched straight toward Jibble, who was still slow-dancing with the mop… now whispering affirmations to it. “Jibble,” Grindle said, stepping directly into his line of vision like an elf-shaped pop-up ad. “I need your help.” Jibble blinked slowly, as if trying to determine whether Grindle was real or a hallucination induced by sugar-cookie shots. “Grindle… buddy… last time you said that, I ended up duct-taped to a model train.” “Yes,” Grindle replied proudly, “and it built character. Also speed. You were very aerodynamic.” Jibble looked down at the mop for moral support. The mop, being a mop, offered none. With the defeated sigh of someone who knew resistance was futile, he nodded. “Fine. What do you need?” Grindle’s smile widened with unsettling enthusiasm. “A simple task! We’re going to, hypothetically, temporarily, and entirely for morale purposes… relocate the Naughty List.” Jibble’s pupils dilated. “Grindle. No.” “Grindle. Yes.” Jibble clutched the mop like a lifeline. “Do you know what Santa will do if he finds out?” Grindle shrugged. “Thank me?” “Grindle.” “Fine. He’ll notice. But we’ll put it back! Eventually. Probably.” Jibble whimpered internally but followed anyway, because good decisions had never once happened at a Christmas party. The two elves crept through the swirling chaos of the workshop dance floor. A conga line wrapped around them in a swirling, sugar-fueled tornado — Mrs. Claus still at the front, raising her mug triumphantly, chanting “HOLIDAY CARDIO!” as reindeer scrambled to keep up. An elf DJ was mixing classic carols with an alarming amount of bass, causing several ornaments to vibrate off nearby shelves. A group of gingerbread men — the living enchanted kind — were engaged in a heated dance battle with a flock of snow sprites who had clearly taken caffeine. Grindle moved through the madness untouched, a tiny agent of chaos protected by his own absurd energy. Jibble, however, got hit in the face with a rogue candy cane, stepped into a spilled bowl of marshmallows, and was briefly trapped inside a wreath someone mistook for a dance accessory. Grindle did not slow down. Soon they reached the long hallway leading to Santa’s office. The music faded into muffled thumping behind them, replaced by the serene hum of magical machinery and the faint jingling of distant bells. Here, the air felt… official. Important. Completely incompatible with whatever Grindle was planning. “Okay,” Grindle whispered, flattening himself against a wall despite the corridor being totally empty. “We must be subtle.” “Grindle,” Jibble said, “you’re wearing a hat with a jingle bell the size of a plum.” Grindle scowled, removed the bell, stuffed it into Jibble’s pocket, and continued his stealth mission with exaggerated tiptoe steps so dramatic they resembled an interpretive dance about paranoia. They reached Santa’s office door — a towering slab of carved wood depicting reindeer, snowflakes, and one angelic-looking Santa who would absolutely not approve of this situation. Jibble swallowed hard. The mop trembled in his hands. “Grindle,” he whispered, “maybe we should think about—” “Thinking is the enemy of adventure,” Grindle declared, pushing the door open before Jibble could protest. The office was empty — Santa and Mrs. Claus were still “setting the dance floor on festive fire,” as Mrs. Claus had put it — so the coast was somewhat clear. Warm lamplight illuminated the room. Papers were neatly stacked. The globe of the world spun lazily, glowing with soft enchantment. On Santa’s desk, glowing with restrained cosmic authority, sat the one item they were not supposed to touch under any circumstances: The Naughty List. Bound in leather. Embossed in gold. Radiating the quiet judgment of a thousand disappointed parents. Jibble froze. “Nope. Absolutely not. I’m out. I’m going back to the mop. It’s safer.” But Grindle had already marched forward, reverently placing his hands on the list like he was greeting an old friend — or choosing the shiniest object to steal. “Grindle,” Jibble said, voice cracking like a gingerbread cookie under pressure, “you cannot just TAKE it.” “I’m not taking it,” Grindle corrected. “I am temporarily borrowing it to enhance holiday morale through educational mischief. It’s called leadership.” “It’s called a felony.” Grindle snorted. “Only if I get caught.” He lifted the Naughty List. It hummed with ancient magic, glowing brighter the further it moved from the desk. The air shifted. The Christmas lights flickered. Somewhere, a distant bell rang in alarm — or annoyance. “Okay,” Grindle said, “step one: relocation. Step two—” The door creaked. Both elves froze. A shadow passed under the threshold. Heavy footsteps approached. The kind of footsteps that belonged to a man with opinions about proper behavior and a zero-tolerance policy for elf-based shenanigans. Jibble whispered, “We’re dead.” Grindle whispered back, “We’ll die heroes.” “You’ll die. I’ll pass out and hope that counts.” The doorknob turned. Grindle stuffed the Naughty List inside his shirt. That was his plan. The door swung open. The door flew open with a dramatic whoosh, as if the universe itself sensed that something regrettable was about to unfold. In stepped not Santa, nor Mrs. Claus, nor any authority figure with the ability to revoke workshop privileges. Instead, it was— “OH SWEET GINGERBREAD, IT’S JUST TINSEL!” Grindle hissed dramatically. Tinsel Norell—inventory clerk, chaos magnet by proximity, and the only elf who could lose an entire shipment of candy canes without leaving the room—stared at the two of them with the confused expression of someone walking in on a crime they did not want to be associated with. She blinked. Then she blinked again. Then she sighed, already exhausted by the sight before her. “I don’t even want to know,” she said, pinching the bridge of her nose like a parent whose children have discovered matches. Grindle puffed out his chest, glowing with pride. “Excellent! If you don’t know, you can’t testify.” “Please don’t use that sentence again,” Jibble whimpered, clutching the mop like it was a legal defense. Tinsel’s eyes drifted to the bulge under Grindle’s shirt—an extremely obvious, rectangular, glowing bulge. “Is that… the Naughty List?” Grindle gasped dramatically. “Tinsel! You wound me! You think I would steal—” The Naughty List hummed loudly inside his shirt like a furious hornet nest. “—borrow,” he corrected without missing a beat, “such a historic, important, extremely overreactive document?” Tinsel stared. Grindle smiled. Jibble cringed so hard his spine made a noise. “You two,” Tinsel said slowly, “are absolutely unhinged.” Grindle beamed. “Thank you.” “That wasn’t a compliment.” “Oh… well, you said it nicely.” Tinsel was about to respond when a booming, jolly, unmistakable voice echoed down the hall. “HO HO—WHERE’S MY LIST?” Santa’s footsteps approached with the slow, seismic certainty of a man who had raised nine thousand elves and forgiven maybe ten. Jibble turned pale. “Grindle. He’s coming. He’s ACTUALLY coming.” “Stay calm,” Grindle said, despite being absolutely incapable of calm. “I have a plan.” He did not have a plan. Santa’s shadow stretched across the hallway like an omen. Tinsel shoved both elves behind Santa’s enormous filing cabinet with the strength of someone who had absolutely no interest in being present for the consequences. Santa entered the office. His boots thudded. His coat swished. His beard practically glowed with judgment. He looked around the room, frowning deeply enough to trigger a small avalanche somewhere. “Strange,” he murmured. “I could’ve sworn I left it right here…” Under the desk, Jibble was silently praying to any holiday deity that would listen. The mop lay across his lap like a dramatic fainting Victorian heroine. Tinsel was holding her breath. And Grindle— Grindle felt the Naughty List shift inside his shirt. He froze. The List glowed through the fabric. It warmed. It hummed louder. Santa turned. The List ignited in a burst of golden sparks so bright that it illuminated the entire hiding spot like a stage spotlight. Grindle let out a squeak. Jibble let out a scream. Tinsel let out a noise that can only be described as “existential dread mixed with a kazoo.” “WHO’S THERE?” Santa thundered. The filing cabinet slid forward as if shoved by an invisible force—or two panicking elves and one cowardly inventory clerk. The trio tumbled out onto the floor in a heap of limbs, mops, and glowing contraband. Santa stared down at them. Slowly. Silently. Deeply disappointedly. “Grindle,” Santa said, in the calm tone every elf feared. “Is that… my Naughty List?” Grindle considered lying. Then the List hummed louder, clearly snitching. “Technicallyyyy…” he said, drawing out the word with the optimism of someone who hoped Santa had recently sustained a blow to the head. “It’s more like a cooperative morale object?” Santa held out his hand. Grindle wilted. He pulled the Naughty List from his shirt with all the shame of a child handing over a broken vase. Santa took it, dusted off the glitter, and sighed the sigh of a man who would need extra cocoa tonight. “We will discuss this later,” Santa said. “Much later.” Grindle nodded solemnly. Jibble fainted again. Tinsel pretended to be unconscious just to avoid responsibility. Santa paused, then added in a much quieter voice, “Also… please stop hiding important artifacts in your shirt. Last year it was the Reindeer Roster. Before that, it was the North Pole Key.” “I learn best by doing,” Grindle said proudly. “And I learn patience by knowing you,” Santa said dryly. He left the room with the List in hand, shaking his head, muttering something about insurance premiums. Once he was gone, Grindle pushed himself up, dusted off his outfit, and struck a heroic pose. “Well!” he declared. “That could have gone worse.” “HOW?” Tinsel shouted. Grindle grinned wickedly. “Oh, I haven’t gotten to items four through twelve yet.” Jibble whimpered. Tinsel groaned. Somewhere in the workshop, a single ornament cracked in fear. And Grindle, red velvet menace, walked off into the twinkling glow of Christmas chaos… already planning the next disaster.     Bring Grindle’s Chaos Home If Grindle’s red-velvet mischief made you smile, smirk, or quietly question the structural safety of the North Pole, you can adopt a little of that holiday chaos for your own home. This artwork is available in several festive formats perfect for gifting, decorating, or subtly intimidating coworkers who think their cubicle décor is superior. Dress up your walls with a bold Canvas Print, or go full elegant troublemaker with a gleaming Metal Print. Want something whimsical and cozy? The Tapestry brings Grindle’s energy into any room without requiring magical liability waivers. For those spreading snarky seasonal cheer, the Greeting Card is perfect for delivering holiday messages such as “Hope your Christmas is calmer than Santa’s night.” And if you want just a dash of mischief, snag the durable, adventure-ready Sticker—ideal for laptops, water bottles, and any surface that needs 20% more chaos. Add a little mischievous magic to your world—Grindle insists on it.

par Bill Tiepelman

Gobsmacked in the Glade

The Lily Pad Incident At precisely “oh no o’clock,” a rainbow-haired goblin named Peeb discovered that lily pads are terrible chairs and even worse life choices. He’d crouched on one like a suspicious frog, hands pressed to his cheeks, and released a whispery “oooo” that traveled across the enchanted pond like a gossip column with webbed feet. Peeb wasn’t built for stealth. His hair was a gossip of color—cobalt, tangerine, electric moss—standing out like a neon sign that screamed TRY ME. His ears, the architectural wonder of the glade, collected every sound: the tilt-tock of water beetles, the distant honk of an aggrieved swan, and, more importantly, the crunch of someone stepping on a twig that did not sign up for this. “Show yourself,” Peeb stage-whispered, which for him meant “please announce your plot twist.” A ripple rolled past his toes. The lily pad burped. He adjusted his existential squat. “If this is a dramatic entrance, you’re late and I’m judging.” From the cattails emerged a figure in travel-stained leathers: a human woman with a map shoved into her belt and the facial expression of someone who’d headbutted destiny and won on points. She carried a backpack the size of a small moon and the attitude of an unpaid invoice. “You must be the Guide,” she said. “Guide? I am an Experience,” Peeb said, flicking hair like a discount thunderstorm. “Also, hello. I charge by the gasp, and you’re already two in.” “Name’s Renn,” she said. “Here for a job. Need a goblin who knows the shortcuts through the Glarewood, preferably one who won’t eat my boots.” Peeb held up both hands. “I only nibble ethically sourced footwear.” His eyes narrowed, tracking a dragonfly practicing irresponsible aerobatics. “But the Glarewood? That place stares back. Why go?” Renn unsheathed a rolled parchment. It glinted—literally glinted—like a guilty conscience. “Treasure map. Also a curse. Long story. Think ‘family drama meets hostile cartography.’ I was told the goblin with the loud hair and louder opinions could get me through.” Peeb perked. Treasure was his love language, followed closely by snacks and malicious compliance. “I have routes,” he said. “Secret ones. One involves a polite troll. Another requires emotionally negotiating with a bridge.” Behind them, the pond plopped. Something large exhaled bubbles the size of soup bowls. A golden water lily tilted, showering them in sparkles that were frankly showing off. The air smelled of wet coins and wishful thinking. “Fine,” Renn said. “Terms?” “One: I pick snacks. Two: If we encounter any prophecies, we ignore them out of spite. Three: You don’t ask what’s in my pocket.” “Counter-offer: I pick the route. You don’t steal my map. And if something with teeth smiles at me, you explain that’s just their face.” They shook on it. The pond hiccuped again, and Peeb’s lily pad sank an inch. “Right,” he said brightly, “time to go before my seat becomes a metaphor.” They made it as far as the reeds when the water boomed. A shadow rolled up from the pond’s belly like a thought nobody wanted to admit having. Two bulbous eyes surfaced, each the size of a teacup saucer. A mouth followed, wide enough to register its own postal code. “Friend of yours?” Renn asked, already drawing a knife that did not look ceremonial. Peeb squared his shoulders. “That,” he said, “is Bubbles the Approximately Gentle. He’s usually friendly as long as you don’t—” Bubbles snapped up the sinking lily pad with a single slurp and burped out a crown of pondweed. “—insult his décor,” Peeb finished weakly. The giant amphibian blinked. Then, in a voice like wet drums, it spoke: “Toll.” Renn glanced at Peeb. Peeb glanced at fate. Somewhere, a prophecy tried to stand up and tripped over its robes. “All right,” Peeb sighed, fishing in his pocket. “Let’s pay the frog and pray it’s not with our dignity.” The Toll of Bubbles and Other Unpaid Debts Peeb’s hand emerged from his pocket with an assortment of glittering nonsense: two bent copper buttons, a marble that faintly hummed with regret, and a coin bearing the face of someone who looked suspiciously like Peeb doing his best impression of royalty. “That’s your currency?” Renn asked, eyebrow performing interpretive skepticism. “Of course not,” Peeb said indignantly. “That’s my emergency charm collection. You can’t just pay a frog king with anything. There are rules. Amphibious etiquette is sacred.” He turned to Bubbles, who had begun drumming his webbed fingers on the pond’s surface, creating small tidal waves that gently insulted physics. “O Mighty Lord of Moist Surfaces,” Peeb began in an overly theatrical voice, “we humbly seek passage across your most glistening domain. In return, we offer tribute most shiny and irrelevant!” Renn whispered, “You sound like a con artist in a poetry contest.” Peeb whispered back, “Thank you.” From his satchel, the goblin produced a single item of magnificence: a polished spoon with an engraving of a duck doing yoga. He held it aloft. The world seemed to pause for a moment, confused but intrigued. Bubbles’ massive eyes blinked. “Acceptable.” The frog’s tongue—longer than necessary by several legal definitions—snapped out and took the spoon. He swallowed it in one heroic gulp, then leaned in close enough that Peeb could see his reflection trembling in an ocean of amphibian disinterest. “Go,” the frog rumbled. “Before I remember my dietary restrictions.” They didn’t wait for a second invitation. The reeds gave way to damp earth and a winding trail that glowed faintly underfoot, like moonlight had decided to join the conspiracy. Trees here grew in eccentric shapes—one looked like it was trying to hug itself, another had grown a perfect window through its trunk, framing a sliver of sky that looked suspiciously judgmental. Renn’s boots squelched rhythmically, the sound of someone too practical to be impressed by whimsy. “So what’s the deal with the Glarewood?” she asked. “Why’s everyone so afraid of it?” “Oh, the usual,” Peeb said, skipping over a root that was clearly plotting something. “Haunted trees, cursed air, sentient moss that critiques your posture. It’s a place that feeds on overconfidence and snacks on poor decisions. You’ll love it.” “Sounds like my last relationship,” Renn muttered. They walked in uneasy silence until the ground began to shimmer with a subtle blue sheen. Ahead, the trees leaned closer, forming an archway of twisted branches that seemed to breathe. The air shimmered with lazy motes of light, floating like tiny glowing lies. “That’s it,” Peeb said, suddenly serious. “The border. Once we cross, there’s no turning back without paperwork, and trust me—you do not want to deal with the bureaucratic dryads.” “Can’t be worse than the Department of Magical Licensing,” Renn said dryly. “Oh, it’s worse,” Peeb said. “They charge emotional tolls.” Renn stepped through first. For a heartbeat, she vanished—then reappeared on the other side, slightly blurry, like reality hadn’t finished loading her. Peeb followed, holding his breath, and the world changed in a blink. The Glarewood was alive in a way normal forests weren’t. Colors moved. Shadows gossiped. The trees bent closer to listen to secrets they weren’t supposed to hear. The air was heavy with perfume and potential bad ideas. “Okay,” Renn said, pulling out the map. “We head north until the path forks. One route leads to the Cackling Brook, the other to the Weeping Hill. We want the one that’s less emotionally unstable.” Peeb squinted at the parchment. “It’s moving.” Indeed, the ink shimmered and rearranged itself like it was trying out new fonts. Words twisted, forming a sentence that hadn’t been there before: ‘You’re being followed.’ Renn folded the map very slowly. “That’s comforting.” Behind them came a faint jingling—like tiny bells being carried by the wind. Then laughter. Soft, overlapping, too cheerful to be friendly. “Pixies,” Peeb hissed. “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye anything. They weaponize attention.” “What happens if we ignore them?” Renn asked. “They’ll feel neglected and emotionally spiral until they turn into wasps. Or they’ll braid our eyebrows. Fifty-fifty.” Unfortunately, the pixies had already noticed them. A dozen of them swirled out of the trees—tiny, glittering beings with wings that sounded like gossip. Their leader, wearing a thimble crown, landed on Peeb’s nose. “You’re in our glen,” she said in a voice that could curdle honey. “Pay toll or perform dance.” Peeb sighed. “I just paid a toll. I’m starting to feel financially targeted.” “Dance,” the pixie insisted, poking him with a twig-sized spear. “Funny dance. With feelings.” Renn grinned. “Oh, I have to see this.” Peeb rolled his eyes so hard they nearly relocated. “Fine,” he said, hopping onto a nearby log. “Prepare yourselves for interpretive goblin jazz.” What followed could not legally be described as dancing. It was more like an argument between gravity and self-respect. Peeb flailed, spun, and occasionally made finger-gun gestures at invisible haters. The pixies were delighted. Renn laughed so hard she nearly dropped her knife. Even the trees seemed to lean closer in horrified fascination. When Peeb finished, panting and triumphant, the pixie queen clapped. “Adequate,” she declared. “You may pass. Also, your aura needs moisturizer.” “I’ll put that in my next therapy session,” Peeb muttered. The pixies vanished as suddenly as they’d appeared, leaving behind a faint smell of mischief and sparkles that clung like regrets. Renn wiped her eyes. “You’re surprisingly good at humiliation.” “It’s a survival skill,” Peeb said. “Also my cardio.” They pressed on, following the twisting glow of the trail deeper into the Glarewood. The trees grew taller, the air thicker. Somewhere ahead, faint music played—slow, mournful, and unsettlingly seductive. It tugged at the edges of reason. Renn frowned. “You hear that?” Peeb nodded, ears twitching. “Sirens. Wood version. Probably trying to lure us into an emotional flashback.” “Charming.” Renn drew her knife again. “Lead the way, Experience.” Peeb bowed dramatically. “After you, Customer Satisfaction Guarantee.” Together, they stepped into the clearing where the music pulsed like a heartbeat. In the center stood a crystal pool, and in it—something moved. It wasn’t a creature so much as an idea pretending to have a body: long, fluid, beautiful in a slightly threatening way. Its eyes glowed like bottled daydreams. “Welcome,” it purred. “You’ve come far. Trade me your fears, and I’ll show you the treasure you seek.” Peeb blinked. “Hard pass. My fears are artisanal and locally sourced.” Renn, however, stepped closer. “What if she’s telling the truth?” “Oh, she probably is,” Peeb said. “That’s the scary part. Truth here always has small print.” The creature smiled wider, too wide. “All treasures require a price,” it said softly. “For some, it’s gold. For others…” Its gaze slid over to Peeb. “Humor.” “No,” Peeb said instantly. “Absolutely not. You can pry my jokes from my cold, giggling corpse.” “Then perhaps…” it turned to Renn, “your name.” Renn’s grip tightened on the knife. “You’ll have to earn it.” The pool rippled. The air thickened. The Glarewood seemed to hold its breath. Peeb groaned, already regretting his entire résumé. “Every time I agree to help someone,” he muttered, “we end up negotiating with metaphors.” He reached for his pocket, where something faintly sparkled—the same pocket he’d refused to discuss earlier. Renn noticed. “What are you hiding in there?” Peeb grinned. “Plan B.” He pulled out a tiny glass orb swirling with rainbow mist. “If this doesn’t work,” he said, “run.” He hurled it into the pool. The orb burst in a cloud of colors, releasing a sound halfway between a laugh and an explosion. When the smoke cleared, the creature was gone. The pool shimmered gold for a moment, then faded into silence. Peeb blinked at the empty water. “Huh. That actually worked. I was 80% sure that was just a glitter bomb.” Renn lowered her knife slowly. “You’re a menace.” “And yet,” Peeb said, dusting off his tunic, “an effective one.” From the pool’s center rose a small pedestal. On it lay a glowing gemstone, shaped like a tear and pulsing softly with light. The treasure they’d been seeking. Renn stepped forward. “Finally.” Peeb, however, didn’t move. His expression was uncharacteristically serious. “Be careful,” he said. “The Glarewood doesn’t give gifts. It loans them—with interest.” Renn hesitated, then reached out—and the forest itself seemed to exhale. The Gem, The Goblin, and the Gigglepocalypse Renn’s fingers brushed the gemstone, and instantly the world hiccupped. Colors inverted. Trees gasped. Somewhere, a mushroom screamed in lowercase italics. The Glarewood came alive like a theater audience realizing the play had gone off-script. “Well,” Peeb said, blinking through the sudden kaleidoscope of nonsense, “that’s new.” The glowing tear pulsed once, twice—then melted into a puddle of shimmering light that slithered up Renn’s arm like affectionate mercury. She swore, trying to shake it off, but it climbed higher, wrapping her wrist in luminous threads. “Peeb! Fix this!” “Define ‘fix,’” Peeb said cautiously. “Because my last attempt at fixing something gave a raccoon the power of foresight, and now he keeps mailing me spoilers.” Renn glared at him with the intensity of a thousand unpaid invoices. “Do. Something.” The goblin squinted at the light now coiling up her arm like sentient jewelry. “Okay, okay! Maybe it’s not evil. Maybe it’s just aggressively friendly.” “It’s humming the same tune from the pool!” Renn snapped. “That’s never good news!” The humming grew louder. The gemstone’s light flared—and in an instant, the clearing was filled with a burst of magic that tasted like laughter and poor decisions. The trees bent back. The air rippled. And from the puddle of melted gemstone rose a figure… small, winged, and painfully familiar. “Oh no,” Peeb groaned. “Not her.” The figure yawned, stretched, and fixed them both with a smirk. “Miss me?” It was the pixie queen. Same thimble crown. Same weaponized smugness. “Thanks for the lift. You broke my prison, darlings.” “We what now?” Renn asked. “My essence was sealed in that gem ages ago,” the queen said, inspecting her nails. “Something about excessive mischief and minor war crimes. But now I’m free! Which means—” She spread her arms dramatically. “Party time!” With a flick of her wrist, glitter detonated across the clearing. Every tree started humming in harmony. Flowers burst into applause. Bubbles—the giant frog—rose from a nearby swamp puddle wearing a crown of disco lights and began to dance with terrifying grace. “Oh stars,” Peeb muttered, ducking as a confetti tornado spun past him. “She’s triggered the Gigglepocalypse.” “The what?” Renn demanded, wiping glitter off her face. “A magical chain reaction of uncontrollable laughter,” Peeb shouted over the chaos. “It feeds on irony and spreads faster than gossip in a tavern!” Sure enough, Renn felt a snort bubble up her throat. Then a giggle. Then a full, uncontrollable laugh that bent her double. “Stop—can’t—breathe—why—is—it—funny!” “Because,” Peeb gasped, barely holding back his own fit, “this—forest—runs on punchlines!” The pixie queen twirled midair, laughing like a caffeinated thunderstorm. “Let joy reign!” she cried. “Also mild chaos!” Peeb fumbled through his pockets, tossing out increasingly useless trinkets: a singing walnut, a broken compass that pointed toward guilt, and a half-eaten biscuit that might’ve been sentient. Nothing helped. Then he remembered the marble—the one that hummed with regret. He held it up, eyes wide. “This! This might balance the magic!” “How?” Renn choked out, tears of laughter streaming down her face. “Regret cancels joy! It’s basic emotional algebra!” Peeb hurled the marble into the air. It burst in a puff of gray mist that smelled faintly of unfinished apologies. The laughter faltered. The glitter dimmed. Bubbles stopped mid-disco. The pixie queen frowned. “What did you do?” “Emotional dampening,” Peeb wheezed. “Never underestimate the power of mild disappointment.” The Glarewood sighed, colors settling back to normal. The pixie queen hovered crossly. “You’re no fun.” “Fun is subjective,” Peeb said, hands on hips. “Some of us enjoy stability and not being turned into interpretive performance art.” Renn, still catching her breath, straightened. “So that’s it? We broke a curse and unleashed a menace?” “Technically,” Peeb said, “we upgraded her from imprisoned evil to freelance chaos consultant.” “I like that,” the pixie queen said. “Put it on my card.” Before either could respond, she vanished in a sparkle explosion so excessive it probably violated several magical ordinances. Silence returned—mostly. The forest still glowed faintly, as if chuckling to itself. Renn exhaled, brushing leaves from her hair. “So what now?” Peeb shrugged. “We deliver the good news: the treasure was actually a trapped pixie monarch who now owes us a favor.” “A favor,” Renn repeated skeptically. “From her.” “Hey,” Peeb grinned, “I’m an optimist. Sometimes chaos pays better than gold.” They turned to leave the clearing. Behind them, the pond rippled gently. Bubbles raised one webbed hand in a slow, approving wave. Peeb waved back, solemn. “Stay moist, big guy.” As they disappeared into the glowing forest, the trees resumed their whispering, the moss exhaled, and a single echo lingered in the air—a soft chuckle that might’ve been the forest’s way of saying, Nice try. Peeb adjusted his satchel and smirked. “Next time,” he said, “we charge extra for emotional damage.” Renn laughed again—this time on purpose. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet,” Peeb said, with a little bow, “you’re still following me.” The path curved ahead, glowing faintly, promising more trouble. The kind that smelled like adventure, bad ideas, and the next great story.     Bring a Piece of the Glade Home Can’t get enough of Peeb’s wild adventure through the Glarewood? Bring the magic (and a bit of mischief) home with our exclusive Gobsmacked in the Glade collection, inspired by Bill and Linda Tiepelman’s enchanting artwork. Whether you’re looking to elevate your décor or curl up in style, there’s a little goblin charm for everyone: Framed Print — perfect for adding a splash of whimsy to your walls. Wood Print — rich texture and earthy tones straight from the Glarewood itself. Fleece Blanket — because nothing says ‘cozy chaos’ like wrapping up in goblin-approved softness. Spiral Notebook — jot down your own questionable quests and mystical misadventures. Every piece captures the humor, color, and curiosity of Gobsmacked in the Glade — a reminder that magic, like good storytelling, belongs everywhere you let it in.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Clockwork Primate

The Gilded Banana Heist In the dim belly of the Brass Bazaar — a market so thick with steam you could butter toast on the air — there lived a monkey who refused to behave like one. He was not born; he was assembled. Every bolt, every glimmering gear had been placed by a drunk inventor named Theophilus Quirk, whose primary design principle was “make it shiny and slightly inappropriate.” Thus, came into being Mimsy the Clockwork Primate. Mimsy was a menace. He swung from chandeliers, rewired pocket watches to explode into confetti, and once famously replaced a noblewoman’s hat with a live, caffeinated parrot. His tail — a flexible coil of polished brass — made a noise like an offended accordion whenever he twirled it, which was constantly. He considered himself not just a monkey, but a performer of chaos. Tonight, he had his goggles on crooked and a plan forming in that rattling clockwork skull. The target? The Gilded Banana of Belgravia — an ancient relic encased in crystal and rumored to contain enough energy to power a small city or one particularly large hangover. It was said to hum with old-world magic and the faint smell of overripe ambition. The Gilded Banana was kept inside Lady Verity Von Coil’s private menagerie — a place so secure it made bank vaults look like teapots. But Mimsy wasn’t scared. Fear was for organics. He simply polished his gear-teeth grin, flicked his monocle into place, and muttered, “Let’s make bananas interesting again.” Under the copper moonlight, he darted through the bazaar, past rows of mechanical parrots hawking poetry and steam-powered crabs playing violins. He adored the noise, the color, the scent of oil and ozone and mischief. He blended in perfectly — a tiny king in a kingdom of creaking dreams. He reached the gates of Von Coil’s estate — all wrought iron filigree and clockwork guards with faces like bored kettles — and grinned. “Oh, you darlings,” he whispered, flipping a switch in his chest. His eyes flared golden, gears spun, and from his back unfolded mechanical wings stitched with shimmering, fractal feathers. “Time for a little sky piracy,” Mimsy declared, leaping into the thick, velvet night. He soared over the estate, feathers glinting like kaleidoscopic lightning. The guards below gasped, mistaking him for a drunken angel — which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. He landed with a soft clink on the menagerie’s glass dome and peered down at the prize below. The Gilded Banana shimmered on a velvet pedestal, bathed in a light that whispered, touch me and regret nothing. “Oh, darling,” Mimsy said, voice dripping with mischief, “I never regret anything shiny.” He pulled a screwdriver from his tail, winked at his reflection, and began to unscrew the dome’s panel. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled. Somewhere closer, a parrot belched steam. And somewhere deep in the gears of his mind, something clicked — destiny, perhaps, or just indigestion. Either way, the night was about to become very loud, very bright, and possibly naked. Bananas, Bafflement, and the Baroness’s Bloomers Mimsy crouched on the glass dome, glinting like a jewel thief in a jewelry store that had given up on morality. The last screw fell loose with a plink, and the panel sighed open. Below, the Gilded Banana waited — smug, radiant, and absolutely begging to be stolen. Mimsy licked his brass lips, though strictly speaking he didn’t have moisture to work with. He was more performance art than biology at this point. “Now,” he murmured, “a little descent, a little finesse, and—” The entire dome creaked. Somewhere in the mansion, a clock struck midnight — not because it was midnight, but because Lady Verity Von Coil’s clocks were emotionally unstable. One started chiming, the rest joined in out of solidarity, and soon the entire estate was ringing like a cathedral full of self-important bells. Mimsy winced. “Well, that’s subtle as a chainsaw in church.” He dropped through the opening, wings folding as he landed on a marble banister shaped like a screaming cherub. The menagerie around him hissed, whirred, and blinked awake — cages of mechanical beasts powering up, eyes glowing crimson in the darkness. He froze, and for one beautiful, absurd moment, every creature stared at him — the intruder with too much confidence and not enough sense. A mechanical ostrich blinked its jeweled eyelids. “Intruder detected.” “Darling,” Mimsy said, “you’re an ostrich, not a philosopher. Mind your beak.” That was the moment all hell unhinged itself. Cages burst open with hydraulic hisses, clockwork beasts stampeded through the polished corridors — lions of bronze, serpents made of slithering chains, and one rather anxious-looking squirrel that seemed to be powered entirely by caffeine and regret. Mimsy cartwheeled across the chaos, bouncing off chandeliers and decorative busts. He snatched up the Gilded Banana in one gleaming paw — it pulsed with an almost seductive hum. “Oh, you are deliciously naughty,” he whispered to it, holding it close. “You and I are going to cause so much paperwork.” A siren blared. Steam vents hissed. Somewhere, a recorded voice began repeating: “Unauthorized simian activity detected.” And that’s when she appeared — Lady Verity Von Coil herself, striding into the hall like a goddess who’d been interrupted mid-champagne. Her corset gleamed, her monocle glinted, and her mood was approximately volcanic. She was draped in violet silk and carrying what looked suspiciously like a cane, but was actually a lightning cannon disguised by etiquette. “Mimsy,” she said, voice smooth as oiled brass, “I told Theophilus to dismantle you years ago.” “Ah, Lady Verity!” Mimsy chirped, bowing with exaggerated flourish. “Still aging backwards, I see. What’s your secret, powdered envy?” Her monocle twitched. “Give me the Banana.” “Can’t,” he said. “It’s part of my balanced diet — one third potassium, two thirds criminal intent.” She aimed the cannon. The air buzzed, charged with energy. “Do not test me, monkey.” “Oh, but testing is what I do best,” he grinned, and flipped backward just as a bolt of violet lightning seared through the air. It missed his tail by a hair’s width — or would have, if he still had hair. He somersaulted onto a chandelier, swinging with gleeful abandon as glass shattered and sparks flew like rebellious fireflies. “Get him!” Lady Verity shouted, and her automaton guards surged forward — all stiff, proper, and terribly underpaid. Mimsy whirled through the air, releasing a burst of oily smoke from his back vents. The room filled with shimmering fog, and for a moment, no one could see a thing. When it cleared, the chandelier was empty, and only one thing remained: Lady Verity’s silk bloomers, pinned to the wall with a screwdriver and a calling card that read: MIMSY WAS HERE. ALSO, NICE CHOICE IN LINGERIE. Outside, the monkey soared into the storm, laughing — an echo of pure, manic joy ricocheting across the rooftops of the Brass Bazaar. He clutched the Gilded Banana, still humming with power. The wind howled; lightning flashed; somewhere, a drunk dirigible pilot swore he saw a winged monkey flashing him. He landed in his workshop — an absolute shrine to bad decisions. Half-finished gadgets littered every surface: a teapot that played jazz, a clock that insulted you hourly, and a half-built automaton labeled “DO NOT ENGAGE (again)”. Mimsy set the Gilded Banana on his bench and gazed at it reverently. “My precious golden fruit of chaos,” he whispered, stroking it with a wrench. “Let’s see what secrets you’re hiding.” He flipped open a hatch on his chest, revealing a swirling vortex of gears and flickering lights, and began connecting wires from himself to the relic. The Banana pulsed brighter — rhythmic, seductive, almost alive. “Oh, yes,” Mimsy said, eyes glowing brighter, “show me your naughty little mysteries.” The relic’s hum deepened to a low, resonant vibration that rattled the glass. Sparks danced across Mimsy’s fingertips. The air shimmered with electric mischief. And then — with one earth-shaking BZZZT — the workshop was engulfed in golden light. When it faded, Mimsy blinked, his brass ears ringing. The Banana was gone. In its place hovered a holographic sigil — spinning, fractal, and mesmerizing. It pulsed once, twice, then projected a line of elegant script into the air: “Congratulations, thief. You’ve just activated the Banana Protocol.” Mimsy tilted his head. “Oh, splendid. That sounds perfectly harmless.” The hologram blinked. “Self-destruct sequence initiated.” He froze. “Oh. Oh no. Not again.” Every device in the workshop began to hum, gears spinning faster, lights flashing crimson. Outside, lightning roared across the sky as steam vents screamed and boilers shook. Mimsy looked around wildly, flapping his wings. “Alright, alright — don’t panic — I’ve survived worse—well, slightly worse—okay maybe not this worse—” The sigil flared. The floor trembled. And in one last exasperated puff of smoke, Mimsy muttered, “This is going to ruin my upholstery,” before the entire workshop vanished in a golden explosion of fractal light. The Monkey, the Aftermath, and the Ministry of Peculiar Fruit When Mimsy came back online, he wasn’t sure if he was alive, dead, or subscribed to a particularly avant-garde newsletter. Everything glowed. Everything sang. His internal chronometer was spinning like a roulette wheel in a casino run by angels. He blinked, and the world blinked back — a shimmering kaleidoscope of light and sound that smelled faintly of burnt toast and destiny. “Ugh,” he groaned, rubbing his brass temples. “If this is heaven, someone’s overusing the color gold.” He sat up. His workshop was gone. In its place stood a circular room filled with pulsating glyphs and an unsettling number of bananas — each floating serenely in mid-air. In the center of the room hovered a massive holographic seal etched with runes and nonsense. A voice, smooth and smug as polished mahogany, spoke: “Welcome, unauthorized entity, to the Ministry of Peculiar Fruit.” Mimsy blinked. “Oh, splendid. Bureaucracy. I was hoping for oblivion, but paperwork’s fine too.” The sigil pulsed. “You have activated a Class-A Restricted Artifact: The Gilded Banana of Belgravia. This offense carries a penalty of either annihilation or a three-hundred-year internship. Choose wisely.” Mimsy frowned. “Define ‘internship.’” “Unpaid,” the voice replied flatly. He sighed. “Ah. So, annihilation it is.” Before the voice could reply, the air rippled and formed into the shape of a woman — or rather, the memory of one, constructed entirely from light and bureaucratic disappointment. She wore the severe expression of someone who had filled out forms in triplicate and never forgiven the world for it. “I am Registrar Peela Grunty,” she announced. “I oversee the containment and classification of all mystical produce. You, Mr. Mimsy, are in violation of Fruit Protocol Sections 8 through 42, and possibly some moral ones as well.” “Darling, morality is a setting, not a rule,” Mimsy said, giving her a dazzling grin. “May I interest you in chaos?” Peela glared. “No.” “Not even a little?” “Especially not a little.” He sighed and leaned back on a levitating banana. “So what now? You vaporize me? Turn me into jam? Force me to attend a meeting?” “Worse,” she said. “Orientation.” The room shifted — walls peeling apart like clockwork petals. Suddenly Mimsy found himself in a sprawling bureaucratic labyrinth populated entirely by fruit-based entities. A tomato in a waistcoat argued with a cucumber about tax reform. A pineapple with monocles was stamping forms marked “EXISTENTIAL THREAT.” And over it all hung a massive banner that read: “WELCOME TO THE MINISTRY. COMPLIANCE IS MANDATORY. OR ELSE.” Mimsy stared. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” A peach in a bowler hat approached him with a clipboard. “You’ll need to fill out Form F-9 for unauthorized fruit interaction, Form H-2 for dimensional trespass, and Form D-1 if you plan on doing anything remotely entertaining ever again.” “I’d rather chew on a lightning socket,” Mimsy said. The peach adjusted his monocle. “We have a form for that too.” Hours passed — or possibly minutes, or centuries; time worked differently when you were being punished by produce. Mimsy had filled out seventeen forms, two complaints, and one love letter to a kiwi named Stan when something odd happened. The air shimmered. The lights dimmed. A low, seductive hum rolled through the Ministry halls. Every fruit froze. “Warning,” the intercom droned. “Banana Protocol: Stage Two initiated.” Mimsy’s tail twitched. “Stage Two? Oh, no. No no no, I’ve had enough stages for one day.” Peela appeared beside him, looking alarmed for the first time. “What did you do, monkey?” “I touched the shiny thing!” he shouted defensively. “Isn’t that what they’re for?!” The holographic seal reappeared in mid-air, fractal patterns whirling faster. It projected a message in elegant cursive: “Congratulations, Initiate. The Banana chooses its master.” Peela turned to him slowly. “It’s bonded to you.” “Oh, splendid. I’ve always wanted to be spiritually tethered to fruit.” Suddenly, the room erupted in light. The floating bananas spun, glowing brighter until they burst into streams of golden energy that swirled around Mimsy. The seal expanded, wrapping around him like a halo of divine nonsense. His gears hummed. His feathers shimmered with fractal colors beyond comprehension. Peela shielded her eyes. “You idiot! You’ve just ascended!” “To what?” Mimsy cried, as energy crackled through his frame. “To... Bananahood!” There was a long pause. Even the bureaucratic fruits seemed embarrassed. Then Mimsy grinned, eyes blazing gold. “Well,” he said, stretching his wings, “I suppose I’ll have to make it fashionable.” With that, the Ministry’s roof shattered like glass, and Mimsy shot into the sky — radiant, ridiculous, and magnificent. He soared over the Brass Bazaar once more, his laughter echoing like a malfunctioning symphony. Below, people pointed and gasped as the heavens shimmered with golden light. He looked down at the chaos, the wonder, the beauty of it all — and sighed contentedly. “All this,” he murmured, “for one piece of fruit. Worth it.” Then he turned toward the horizon, spreading his radiant wings. “Now, where’s the nearest pub that serves martinis with potassium?” And with that, The Clockwork Primate vanished into the night — half legend, half lunatic, and entirely unforgettable. Author’s Note: If you ever find yourself in the Brass Bazaar and hear faint laughter in the steam vents, raise a banana in salute. It might just wink back.     💫 Own a Piece of The Clockwork Primate Bring Mimsy’s mischievous charm home! Our exclusive Clockwork Primate Collection lets you capture the gleaming madness and charm of the Brass Bazaar in tangible form — whether you crave polished brass, fine paper, or something delightfully portable. 🖼️ Framed Print – A bold centerpiece for any wall that needs a little mechanical mischief. ⚙️ Metal Print – Vivid color and radiant sheen, perfect for those who prefer their art indestructible and dramatic. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your chaos in style. Mimsy-approved for markets, mischief, and mildly illegal adventures. 💌 Greeting Card – Share the legend with someone who appreciates a good story — or a well-timed grin. Each piece is crafted with premium materials and a dash of irreverent brilliance — just as Mimsy would demand. Because good art should always misbehave a little.

par Bill Tiepelman

Song of the Spotted Sky

The Problem with Borrowing Magic By the time Pip realized the sky was humming in a key he could actually hit, he’d already promised three different mushrooms an encore and a fern a personalized shout-out. Pip—being a spotted owl-dragon hatchling with the attention span of a soap bubble—loved applause, snacks, and shortcuts, not necessarily in that order. He had two shiny new wings, a belly like a toasted marshmallow, and the deep personal conviction that rules were for species without charisma. On this particular morning, the forest glowed like it had been gently basted in sunlight and baked to golden perfection. Pip perched on a log, warming his toes and contemplating the day’s agenda, which mostly involved not doing the responsible thing and definitely doing the dramatic thing. The responsible thing was practicing flight patterns. The dramatic thing was debuting his original composition: “Song of the Spotted Sky.” There was only one issue—he hadn’t technically written it yet. Minor speed bump. Major main-character energy. “Art is ninety percent confidence and ten percent improvisation,” Pip announced to a moss ball, which offered the kind of silent support only spherical plants can. “Also, snacks.” He flicked his ears, spread his leathery wings, and attempted a warmup trill that sounded like a piccolo losing an argument with a kazoo. Somewhere in the canopy, an elderly jay shouted, “Cease and desist!” which Pip took as rave feedback from his core demographic: disgruntled elders. Enter Marnie, a bat with the dry wit of a tax auditor and the fashion sense of midnight. She hung upside down from a low branch like punctuation at the end of a bad decision. “You’re going to try sky-singing without asking the sky?” she asked, deadpan. “Bold. Illegal. I respect the commitment to chaos; I do not endorse the consequences.” “I’m not stealing the sky’s song,” Pip said. “I’m sampling it. Very modern. Very remix culture.” He wiggled a talon like a lawyer presenting a loophole. “Also, the sky is big. It won’t notice.” Marnie blinked. “The sky notices everything. It’s literally the surveillance state of nature.” She flapped once, landing beside him. “Look, maestro, you can either learn the fundamentals or you can learn them the hard way. The sky will teach you, but it charges interest.” Pip pretended to listen, which is to say he didn’t. The forest was now definitely humming, a slow, honey-thick chord that slid under his skin and lit up his bones like lanterns. It felt like standing in front of a bakery when the first tray of cinnamon rolls hits the air—illegal levels of irresistible. He lifted his chin and caught the melody, bright and simple as a whistle. It fit his throat like a key in a lock. He sang. Oh, he sang. Notes poured out like coins from a cracked jar—tinkling, spinning, showing off. Birds paused mid-complaint. Leaves angled themselves for better acoustics. Even the grumpy jay muttered, “Well, I’ll be—” and forgot to finish being offended. Pip’s wings vibrated with resonance, and the log thrummed along as if it, too, had been waiting to be part of something catchy. “See?” Pip gasped between phrases. “Effort is a myth invented by mediocre squirrels.” He stretched the last note into a glittering ribbon—and felt it tug back. The sky’s melody hooked him like a fish on an invisible line. He choked. His next breath tasted like static and rain. The golden haze sharpened to a metallic blue, and the air grew crowded, like a room where someone important had just walked in. The song—the sky’s song—unspooled wider, older, and wholly unimpressed. The clouds drew together with the soft menace of a librarian closing a very heavy book. A voice rolled across the glade, not loud, but large, as if it had been practicing patience for a few million years. “Little borrower,” it said, “did you ask?” Pip, who had not asked, did what all natural performers do when confronted with accountability: he smiled like a discount cherub and tried charm first. “Big beautiful sky,” he crooned, “I was merely honoring your work with a tasteful tribute—” “Cute,” the sky said, in the tone of a bouncer checking an obviously fake ID. “Return what you took.” The humming tightened. Pip’s wings snapped open on their own, his feet skittered, and he found himself hovering a foot above the log, held there by a music that tolerated no nonsense. Marnie winced. “Interest,” she reminded him, like a friend who has absolutely called this before. “Also, do not say ‘remix culture’ again. Nature starts charging royalties.” The sky’s melody pressed against Pip’s chest. Under it, he could hear something smaller—a thin, bright thread that might’ve been his voice. If he didn’t learn fast, he’d be a cautionary tale with good hair. The forest leaned in. The moss ball leaned in, which is impressive for something with no neck. “Okay,” Pip whispered. “Teach me.” The sky paused, amused. “Lesson one,” it said. “You don’t get to lead the choir until you’ve learned to listen.” The Choir of Small Noises Pip did not like being grounded—especially while hovering a foot off the ground. The irony was thick enough to butter toast with. The sky’s magic held him in place like an invisible hand, and his wings, those shiny new symbols of self-importance, trembled as if they had realized they’d been rented, not owned. “Lesson one,” the sky had said, in that tone all teachers use right before you regret enrolling. “Listen.” So Pip listened. Or rather, he pretended to. He tilted his head, widened his eyes, and summoned the expression of someone who had just discovered depth as a concept. The forest hummed around him, but it wasn’t the dramatic cosmic harmony he expected. It was… busy. Petty, even. The soundscape of small lives doing small things with alarming commitment. Leaves whispered gossip about who was photosynthesizing too loudly. Ants bickered about traffic management. A beetle somewhere was giving an unsolicited TED talk on bark texture. Even the moss muttered in an ancient, damp dialect that seemed mostly to be complaining about the humidity. It was less “sacred song of the natural world” and more “open mic night for neurotic vegetation.” “Is this it?” Pip whispered. “This can’t be it. The sky wants me to listen to this?” “Yes,” said Marnie, who had returned, smug as gravity. “This is what the universe sounds like when you’re not starring in it.” Pip gave her a side-eye so sharp it could’ve opened envelopes. “You’re suggesting that enlightenment sounds like moss complaining about its knees?” “You’d be surprised,” she said. “The trick is realizing it’s not about you. That’s when you start hearing what’s really there.” “But I’m adorable,” Pip protested. “Surely the universe can make an exception for someone with marketable charm.” “The universe has a strict no-influencer policy,” Marnie said. “Now shut up and listen harder.” He did. And gradually—painfully—the noise began to sort itself into something less like chaos and more like pattern. The beetle’s rant had rhythm. The ants marched in percussion. Even the muttering moss had a bass line so low it vibrated his feathers. Tiny sounds wove together, looping, layering, becoming something bigger. Pip blinked. For the first time, he noticed the beat under the breeze, the way the sunlight hit leaves in tempo, the soft pulse of sap and water. He wasn’t hearing notes; he was hearing intention. And somewhere in it, faint but steady, his own voice was tucked like a wayward thread—part of the fabric, not on top of it. “Well, I’ll be feathered,” he murmured. “They’re all… singing.” “You just realized that?” Marnie said, hanging upside down again, because emotional growth was clearly exhausting for her. “Everything sings. Some things just do it off-key.” “So the sky’s song…” Pip began slowly. “It’s everyone?” “Exactly. You tried to solo over a symphony.” Pip frowned. “But how am I supposed to stand out if I blend in?” Marnie gave him a pitying look reserved for the hopelessly theatrical. “Oh, sweet nebula, that’s not the problem. You already stand out. The problem is you don’t fit in. Big difference.” He chewed on that thought, which tasted suspiciously like humility and dirt. The forest hum swelled again—gentle, accepting, disinterested in his personal narrative. He tried humming along, softly this time. His tone wobbled, then steadied as he stopped performing and just… participated. The air shifted. The sky, which had been looming like a disappointed stage manager, eased its grip. “Better,” it rumbled, though it sounded almost amused now. “You’re not tone-deaf to consequence anymore.” Pip grinned weakly. “So… I’m free?” “Free-ish,” the sky said. “You still owe me a song. But now you’ll write it with the world, not against it.” “Collaborations aren’t my brand,” Pip muttered. “Neither is existing as a cautionary tale, and yet…” Marnie said. Pip exhaled, flapping his wings just to make sure they still worked. They did, but something had changed. The air felt thicker with meaning, heavier with… awareness, maybe. Or possibly guilt. Hard to tell those apart when you’ve just been schooled by the atmosphere itself. “Fine,” he said, stretching his neck dramatically. “I’ll listen. I’ll learn. I’ll become one with the whatever. But I refuse to stop being fabulous about it.” “No one’s asking you to,” Marnie said. “Just—maybe use your fabulousness for good. Like inspiring humility. Accidentally.” That night, Pip climbed to the tallest branch he could find. The stars blinked awake one by one, like cosmic critics taking their seats. The forest murmured in its thousand sleepy languages. He inhaled the scent of moss, bark, and something like old stories—and began to hum again. This time, the sound didn’t fight the world; it folded into it. The trees harmonized softly. The wind sighed in perfect pitch. A cricket orchestra joined in, playing from the shadows. Even the moon gave a slow, approving nod. Pip sang—not to impress, but to connect. It wasn’t as shiny as performing, but it was deeper, warmer, more… real. And for a moment, the forest’s countless little noises stopped being noise at all. They were the song. The spotted sky above shimmered as if smiling. Then, of course, a toad somewhere croaked completely off-beat and ruined the vibe. “Every band has a drummer,” Marnie said from a nearby branch. “Don’t take it personally.” Pip snorted. “You think the sky’s still listening?” “Oh, definitely. But it’s laughing now.” The night air buzzed softly, and Pip thought—just for a moment—he heard the faintest chuckle woven into the stars. He didn’t know if it was mockery or approval. Probably both. “Lesson two,” the sky murmured faintly. “Humility doesn’t mean silence. It means knowing when not to scream.” “That’s going on a T-shirt,” Pip said, and the wind carried his laughter into the dark, where even the toad managed to land on beat—just once. Encore Under the Falling Stars By the following evening, Pip had achieved something most creatures only dream of: a partial redemption arc and a sense of perspective. Unfortunately, both were terrible for his brand. Nobody buys plush toys of a morally balanced protagonist. He missed being the scandalous, sparkly one—the kind of hatchling who looked like trouble and sounded like a soundtrack. But he also didn’t particularly want to get vaporized by the upper atmosphere again, so personal growth it was. “Balance,” he told himself the next morning, as he tried to hum while eating a berry roughly the size of his head. “Moderation. Maturity.” He paused to lick juice off his wing. “God, I hate it here.” “You’ll get used to it,” said Marnie, who’d made a hobby of appearing uninvited whenever his self-esteem was within kicking distance. “Besides, if you’re done being punished, maybe you can figure out what the sky actually wants from you.” “I thought it wanted me to listen,” Pip said. “Then it wanted me to collaborate. What’s next? Therapy?” “You could use some,” Marnie said cheerfully. “Your ego’s still writing checks your soul can’t cash.” Pip scowled, but she wasn’t wrong. The forest was quieter today—or maybe he was just tuned differently. The chatter of beetles felt less like background noise and more like percussion again. The leaves’ whispers had softened into melody. Even the cranky moss had settled into something like harmony. And over it all, the sky’s hum lingered—patient, constant, the low thrumming reminder that magic, like rent, was due monthly. Then came the rumor. It started in the brambles, as most bad ideas do. A flock of sparrows passed it along to the jays, who exaggerated it into legend, and by sundown the whole forest knew: the sky was planning an open concert. “An open concert?” Pip repeated when Marnie told him. “Like… auditions?” “More like a cosmic jam session,” she said. “Every species gets a chance to contribute their sound. It’s how the sky keeps the balance—every few decades, everyone has to remind it they still exist.” Pip’s feathers fluffed. “So it’s basically a celestial open mic night?” “Exactly. Except if you mess up, you don’t just get booed off stage. You might, you know… disappear.” “Oh,” Pip said, smiling too wide. “So high stakes. Perfect. I’m in.” “You’re not invited,” Marnie said immediately. “You literally just got off musical probation.” “And yet,” Pip said, already preening, “how poetic would it be if I came full circle? The sky took my song—now I give it back, better. Redemption arc, act three, the critics will eat it up.” “The critics,” said Marnie, “will eat you.” But Pip had already decided. You can’t argue logic with someone who narrates their own character development in real time. The Sky’s Stage Three nights later, the entire forest gathered in a clearing so vast it seemed carved by something older than weather. The trees leaned back respectfully, their canopies forming natural amphitheater walls. Fireflies swirled overhead like stage lights. Even the moon looked dressed up, shining with the smug brightness of someone who’d scored front-row seats. The air was thick with anticipation and pollen—both equally intoxicating. One by one, creatures performed. The frogs croaked thunderous harmonies. The crickets chirped in complex polyrhythms that would’ve made jazz musicians weep. The breeze itself sighed through the reeds, a wistful solo that drew a standing ovation from the ferns. Even Marnie participated, contributing a haunting echo that danced through the canopy like smoke and shadow. And then, as always, Pip made an entrance. Not just an entrance—a moment. He swooped in with the subtlety of fireworks at a funeral, his wings catching the moonlight like polished bronze. The crowd collectively groaned. You could hear a fern mutter, “Oh gods, it’s him again.” “Evening, adoring public!” Pip declared, landing on a moss-covered boulder. “I come humbly before you to—” “Stop talking before the smiting starts,” Marnie hissed from above. “—to share a lesson learned!” Pip continued, ignoring her. “Once, I sang without listening. I borrowed what wasn’t mine. But now, I bring back what I’ve found: my voice, shared, not stolen.” He fluffed his chest feathers, inhaled, and began. At first, his song was small—a single, clear note, fragile as glass. Then it grew, layered with echoes of everything he’d heard since: the whisper of moss, the chatter of ants, the rustle of leaves. His voice rose and fell in rhythm with the forest’s breath. It wasn’t perfect. It cracked. It stumbled. But it was alive. Honest. His melody wound through the night like a thread stitching everything together. The sky listened. Then—because the universe enjoys good timing—a shooting star tore across the heavens. It left behind a streak of light that seemed to pulse in sync with Pip’s song. One became two, then ten, then a rain of falling stars, each burning brighter as his voice wove around them. The forest gasped. Even the moss stopped mumbling. The sky spoke again, but this time not as thunder or judgment. It was laughter, soft and rumbling, full of warmth and warning both. “You’ve learned to listen,” it said. “Now listen to what you’ve made.” Pip’s song didn’t stop when he stopped singing. It kept going—echoed, mirrored, remixed by the world itself. The frogs picked up his rhythm. The crickets repeated his melody. The wind whistled in harmony. For the first time, the forest didn’t just hear him; it answered him. And it sounded good. Unreasonably good. Like, “someone’s-going-to-start-selling-merch” good. He beamed. “So… I passed?” “Technically,” said the sky, “but I’m keeping the publishing rights.” “Fair,” Pip said. “I’d only blow it on snacks anyway.” The laughter rippled outward again, scattering among the stars until the whole clearing glowed with gentle, golden light. Creatures turned toward him—some amused, some admiring, a few already plotting to start a tribute act. Marnie landed beside him, giving a little snort. “You realize this means you’re insufferable again.” “Oh, absolutely,” Pip said, grinning. “But now I’m insufferable with depth.” “That’s somehow worse.” They watched the stars fall in silence for a while. It wasn’t comfortable silence—Pip had the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel—but it was companionable. The kind of quiet that happens when you’ve finally stopped trying to fill it. “So what now?” he asked eventually. “Now?” Marnie said. “Now you live with what you’ve learned until you forget it again. Then the sky will teach you something new.” “That’s the cycle?” “That’s the joke,” she said. “Welcome to enlightenment.” He nodded, thoughtful. Then: “Do you think the sky would mind if I did an encore?” Marnie groaned. “You are constitutionally incapable of not pushing your luck.” “True,” Pip said, and before she could stop him, he leapt from the boulder and flared his wings wide. His voice soared into the sky—lighter, freer, full of everything he’d been too proud to feel before. The forest joined him again, this time not out of obligation or curiosity, but out of joy. The whole world became orchestra and audience all at once. And for a brief, impossible moment, Pip thought he could feel the universe smiling—a soundless note of pure approval humming through his bones. Then the note faded, leaving behind only wind and laughter and a toad with no sense of timing. But that was enough.   The Lesson (Abridged, Annotated, and Mildly Sarcastic) The moral, of course, is painfully simple: You can’t own what you don’t understand, and you can’t understand what you refuse to hear. Pip learned—eventually—that creation isn’t conquest, and that sometimes the loudest voice in the room is the one quietly keeping time. The universe has rhythm. You can dance to it, or you can get dragged along by it, but either way—you’re part of the song. And maybe that’s the joke, too: everyone wants to headline, but no one wants to rehearse. Pip just happened to learn both the hard and the entertaining way. Which, frankly, is the only way worth learning anything at all. As for the sky—it kept on humming, amused, watchful, and only slightly worried about what Pip would try next. Because one thing’s for sure: somewhere, somehow, that little spotted show-off was definitely plotting a remix. ARCHIVE NOTE: Prints, downloads, and image licensing of “Song of the Spotted Sky” are available through the Unfocussed Image Archive. Perfect for collectors of whimsical art and lovers of morally ambiguous forest creatures.   Bring the Magic Home If Pip’s song made you grin, snort, or reconsider stealing from cosmic entities, you can now take a little piece of that story home with you. The artwork “Song of the Spotted Sky” by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available in several gorgeous formats, each guaranteed to brighten your space—or mildly judge you if you ignore your creative calling. ✨ Framed Print — Because every wall deserves a touch of whimsy and questionable decision-making. ⚙️ Metal Print — Bold, luminous, and utterly indestructible. Perfect for showcasing Pip’s ego in HD. 🧩 Puzzle — 500+ chances to question your life choices, piece by piece. It’s chaos therapy with wings. 💌 Greeting Card — Send a note, a laugh, or an unsolicited life lesson in Pip-approved style. Whichever version you choose, remember: art is just another way of singing with your eyes open. And if you start hearing the forest hum back—don’t worry. That’s just Pip trying to duet again.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Punk Pixie Manifesto

Wing Maintenance & Other Threats I was elbow-deep in wing glue and bad decisions when the messenger hit my window like a drunk moth. Shattered glass. Confetti of regret. Typical Monday. My left wing was molting in an express-yourself pattern that looked like an oil spill, and the glue fumes were the only thing in the room with a better attitude than me. I yanked the latch, hauled the messenger inside by his collar, and clocked the insignia on his jacket—brass thimble with a crown of needles. Seelie Post. Royal. Oh good. The kind of trouble you can smell before it sues you. “Delivery for Zaz,” he wheezed, which was interesting because my legal name is the length of a violin solo and rhymes with nothing. People who know me call me Zaz. People who don’t know me end up paying for new windows. He handed me a wax-sealed envelope that vibrated like a guilty conscience. The seal was etched with needlework filigree and the faintest suggestion of a smirk—Queen Morwen’s court style. I broke it open with a thumbnail I keep sharpened for statements and citrus. The letter unfolded into calligraphy sharp enough to shave with. Dearest Zazariah Thorn,A delicate item has been misplaced by persons of no consequence. Retrieve it discreetly. Compensation is generous. Consequences for failure are… educational.—Her Grace, Morwen of the Tailors, Keeper of the Thimble Crown Attached was a sketch of the item: a thimble wrought from moonsteel, with a ring of needle points angling inward. A crown for thumbs—or for kings stupid enough to touch it. I’d heard of the Thimble Crown. You wear it, you stitch oaths into reality. One prick and suddenly your promises show up with teeth. It was supposed to live under three veils and an angry aunt, not out where goblins could pawn it for concert tickets. “What’s the generous part?” I asked the messenger. He responded by dying on my floor, which felt melodramatic. He wasn’t stabbed; he was unraveled, threads of glamor popping like overworked seams. Someone had pulled on him from the other side, the way you tug a sweater until it becomes a scarf and bad news. I lit a clove, cracked the window wider, and stared down at the alley. The city was doing its usual impression of a headache: neon bruises, rain blown sideways, a bus groaning like a cursed whale. Humans were out there pretending not to believe in us while buying crystals in bulk. Cute. I looked back at the corpse. “Okay, sweetheart,” I muttered, “who tugged your thread?” I looted his satchel because I’m not a cop, I’m a professional. Inside: a ticket stub from the Rusted Lark (a dive bar with live music and several health code violations), a tin of wing polish (rude), and a matchbook stamped with an orange daisy and the words Tell Daisy You Owe Her. I did, in fact, owe Daisy. Two drinks, a favor, and an explanation for why her ex now only speaks in limericks. Wing glue wasn’t going to fix this day. I strapped on my teal jacket—the one with studs that say “approach with snacks”—and laced my corset tight enough to squeeze the truth out of liars. The mirror offered up the usual: orange mohawk at war with gravity, tattoos like a roadmap to poor decisions, and that face my mother said could curdle milk. I kissed it anyway. “Let’s go make questionable choices.”     The Rusted Lark smelled like beer, ozone, and apologies. I sidestepped a brawl between a pair of brownies arguing about union dues and slid onto a barstool that still had its original curses. Daisy clocked me immediately. She’s a nymph with shoulders like a threat and eyeliner that could cut rope, a saint who once dated me and forgave the experience. Barely. “Zaz,” she purred, wiping a glass that had seen things. “You look like a lawsuit. What do you want besides attention?” “Information. And, I guess, attention.” I flipped the matchbook onto the bar. “Your calling card is making the rounds attached to corpses. You working nights for the Royal haberdashery now?” She didn’t flinch, which told me she already knew the tune. “Not my card. Counterfeit. Cute, though.” She poured me something that smelled like burnt sugar and lightning bugs. “You’re here about the Thimble, aren’t you.” Not a question. “I’m here about the messenger who arrived pre-ruined and bled thread on my floor. But yes, apparently there’s a fashion accessory threatening reality.” I sipped. It tasted like kissing a socket. “Who lifted it?” Daisy tilted her head toward the back booth where a man sat alone, human on the outside, trouble on the inside. Trench coat, cheekbones, smile like a rumor. He was shuffling cards with fingers that knew better. The air around him crackled with low-budget magic. “That’s Arlo Crane,” she said. “Conjurer, con man, crowd-pleaser. He’s been asking very specific questions about moonsteel and needlework. Also he tips well, so don’t kill him in here.” I swiveled toward him and flashed my most professional grin, which looks like a shark rethinking vegetarianism. “If he’s got the Crown, why is he still breathing?” “Because somebody scarier is protecting him,” Daisy said. “And because he’s useful. The Crown changed hands last night, twice. First from the Tailors to the Smilers—” “Ugh.” The Smilers are a cult that replaced their mouths with embroidery. Helpful if you hate conversation and love nightmares. “—then from the Smilers to whoever Arlo’s working for,” Daisy finished. “He’s running an old trick with new thread. And Zaz? There’s a rumor the Crown isn’t just binding oaths anymore. It’s rewriting definitions. Somebody pricked the dictionary.” I felt my stomach try to unionize. Words are dangerous at the best of times; give them sharp accessories and cities fall. “What’s the going rate for apocalypse couture?” “Enough to make you say please.” Daisy slid me a napkin with a name written in lipstick: Madame Nettles. “She’s hosting a couture séance in the Needle Market after midnight. You’ll find Arlo there, if you can pay the cover in secrets.” “I brought plenty,” I said, and we both knew I meant knives.     I drifted toward Arlo’s booth, letting my wings catch the neon. He looked up, blinked once, and folded his cards. “You’re Zaz,” he said, like he was naming a problem. “I was told you’d be taller.” “I was told you’d be smarter,” I shot back, sliding into the seat across from him. Up close, he smelled like cedar and bad ideas. “Let’s make this efficient. You show me where the Crown is. I don’t collapse your lungs into origami cranes.” He smiled—the smug kind, the kind that gets people poetic at funerals. “You don’t want the Crown, Zaz. You want the thread it’s carrying. The pattern underneath the city. Someone tugged it loose. Everybody’s teeth are on edge because deep down we can feel the stitch slipping.” He tapped the deck. “I’m not your thief. I’m your map.” “Terrific,” I said. “Fold yourself into my pocket and be quiet until I need exposition.” “You’ll need more than exposition.” He slid a card across the table. The artwork showed an orange-winged fairy in a teal jacket scowling at destiny. Cute. “You’re being written, Zaz. And whoever’s doing the writing is getting sloppy.” The card warmed under my fingertip—then burned. I hissed, jerking back. On my thumb, a perfect ring of pinpricks. Needle teeth. Somewhere, very far and very near, a chorus of thimbles hummed like a beehive full of lawyers. Arlo’s smile died. “Oh. They’ve already crowned you.” “No one crowns me without dinner first,” I said, but my voice sounded two sizes too small. The bar’s lights flickered. Conversations hiccuped. A dozen patrons turned to look at me in eerie, synchronized curiosity—as if someone had just underlined my name. From the doorway came a rustle like silk over bone. A figure stepped inside, tall, immaculate, face veiled in lace so fine it could cut you with a sentence. Madame Nettles. Beside her walked two Smilers, mouth-threads taut, hands holding silver bobbins that spun on their own. The room fell into the kind of silence that makes choices heavy. Madame Nettles raised a gloved hand and pointed—so politely it felt like an insult—straight at my bleeding thumb. “There,” she murmured, voice like pins in velvet. “The seamstress of our undoing.” Arlo whispered, “We should leave.” “We?” I said. Then the bobbins sang, and the world around me puckered like fabric about to be cut. Look, I’m not scared of much: cops, commitment, self-reflection. But when reality starts to pleat itself, I get respectful. I flipped the table (classic), kicked the nearest Smiler (therapeutic), and grabbed Arlo by the lapels. “Congratulations, map,” I snarled. “You’re now also a shield.” We crashed through the kitchen. A pot of stew tried to negotiate peace and failed. Daisy pointed at the back exit with her bar rag, then at me, then at the ceiling—code for you owe me. We burst into the alley. Rain, sirens, our breath like cigarette ghosts. Behind us, the bar door bulged inward as the Smilers pushed reality through it like dough. Arlo coughed, blinking neon out of his eyes. “The Crown wants you because you talk like a weapon,” he said. “Every insult you’ve ever thrown could become law.” “Great,” I said. “Fetch me City Hall and a megaphone.” “I’m serious,” he said. “If they stitch your tongue to the Crown, the rest of us will spend eternity living inside your punchlines.” I stared at my thumb. The ring of punctures gleamed. Somewhere, far above the clouds, I felt the throb of machinery: looms at the size of weather, knitting fate into a sweater no one requested. I swallowed. “Fine. Map me, Crane. Where’s the next move?” He jerked his chin toward the rooftops. “Needle Market’s closed to groundwalkers tonight. We take the high road.” “I fly ugly when I’m mad,” I warned. “Then the night is about to get beautiful.” We launched, wings chopping rain into glitter. Below, the city stretched like a sullen dragon. Above, the clouds stitched themselves shut behind us. My thumb pulsed in time with a crown I didn’t own. And somewhere between the two, a voice I didn’t recognize cleared its throat and, in my own timbre, said: Rewrite. I didn’t scream. I never scream. I swore very poetically. And then we aimed for the market where secrets are priced by how much they hurt. The Needle Market Says Ouch The Needle Market doesn’t technically exist. It happens. Like a rash or a bad decision, it blooms wherever enough desire and guilt rub together. Tonight, it’s stitched into the rooftops over Sector Nine, a whole carnival of awnings and lanterns balanced on the city’s bones. From the air it looks like someone spilled embroidery across the skyline. Up close, it smells like wax, perfume, and secrets burning to stay warm. We landed behind a row of charm stalls where a dryad in a smoking jacket was selling love potions that came with non-refundable side effects. Arlo folded his trench coat collar up and moved like he was afraid of being recognized—which, in my experience, is how you get recognized. I didn’t bother hiding. My wings were flaring mood-light, my hair was a warning sign, and my boots squeaked like a threat. The Market parted around me like gossip around royalty. “You’re glowing,” Arlo muttered, eyes darting. “That’s not good.” “I’m always glowing,” I said. “Sometimes it’s rage, sometimes it’s crime.” We wove past stalls selling thread spun from siren hair, pocket universes in glass jars, curses priced by the syllable. Everyone was smiling too much. Not happy—just stretched, like they’d forgotten the muscle movements for frowning. The Smilers had been here recently. You could taste the antiseptic of their devotion in the air. Somewhere, someone was humming the same three notes on repeat. It made the hairs on my wings stand up. “Keep your head down,” Arlo whispered. “Sure,” I said. “Right after I tattoo subtle on my forehead.” He sighed. “You’re going to get us—” “Attention? Already did that.” From the crowd stepped a woman with a hat shaped like a dagger and a smile sharp enough to cut fabric. “Zazariah Thorn,” she said, dragging my full name across her teeth like floss. “The Queen’s unlikeliest errand girl.” Her outfit was all velvet menace, her voice a lazy stretch of honey and hooks. Madame Nettles. She’d followed us up—or she’d been waiting. Either way, my day was about to itch. “Madame,” I said, bowing just enough to mock. “Love the lace. I was hoping for a more dramatic entrance, though—maybe thunder, or a scream track.” She chuckled, the kind of sound that ends marriages. “No need for theatrics, darling. You’ve brought enough noise of your own.” She flicked her gaze toward my thumb. “May I?” “You may not,” I said. “The Crown marks you. You understand what that means?” “It means I should start charging rent to the voices in my head?” Arlo tried diplomacy, poor bastard. “Madame, the mark was accidental. We only want to return the Crown to its rightful custodian.” She tilted her head. “Oh, sweet conjurer, no. The Crown has already chosen its custodian. It’s rewriting her as we speak.” Her eyes found mine, pupils like black buttons. “How does it feel, Zazariah, to have the world sewing itself to your opinions?” “About as fun as a corset made of bees.” She smiled wider. “Every word you say now is binding. Every insult is architecture. Careful—you could manifest a slur into a city ordinance.” “Then I’ll start with ‘no solicitors.’” I flexed my wings. “And maybe ‘no veiled creeps with bad metaphors.’” The air around us shivered. A pair of her attendants stumbled backward as an invisible line carved itself into the cobblestone between us—neat, perfect, humming. My words had literally made a border. “Well,” Arlo muttered, “that’s new.” Madame Nettles’ smile didn’t waver, but her fingers twitched. “You’re dangerous, fairy. Untrained power is such a nuisance.” She gestured to her Smilers. “Take her tongue. Politely.” “Oh, now it’s a party,” I said, and pulled the first knife I’d ever stolen. (It’s sentimental; it hums when it’s happy.) The Smilers advanced, silent, silver needles flashing in their fingers. I moved first—because I always do—and for a few ecstatic seconds it was just metal, sweat, and the sound of fabric screaming. I kicked one into a stall of bottled daydreams; he popped like a balloon full of confetti. The other got close enough to snag my sleeve, but the jacket bit back—literally. I heard him yelp as the spikes sank in. Arlo muttered a spell that sounded like cheating and turned his deck of cards into a swarm of glowing paper wasps. They dive-bombed Madame Nettles’ veil, distracting her long enough for me to vault over a table and grab her wrist. “Why me?” I hissed. “Why mark me?” She leaned close enough for me to smell rosewater and something metallic. “Because, dear Zaz, you don’t believe in destiny. And that makes you the perfect author for one.” “You want me to rewrite fate?” “We want you to finish it.” That’s when the ground dropped. Literally. The Market, the stalls, the crowd—all unraveled beneath our feet like someone had tugged the wrong thread. Arlo grabbed me mid-fall, wings snapping open as the whole rooftop bazaar collapsed into glowing strands. We fell through a tapestry of color and sound until we hit another surface—a new Market, deeper, darker, stitched from shadows and half-finished ideas. “Where the hell—” I started. “Below the pattern,” Arlo said grimly. “The place stories go when they’re edited out.” Great. I’d always wanted to vacation in the dumpster of reality. We landed on a platform made of patchwork light. Around us, the air was thick with half-spoken words and the ghosts of metaphors too shy to finish. Figures watched from the edges—discarded characters, unfinished poems, jokes that had lost their punchlines. One of them shuffled forward, headless but polite. “You shouldn’t be here,” it rasped. “Join the club,” I said. “We meet Thursdays.” “They’re trying to stitch the end,” it wheezed. “But the thread is alive now. It remembers what it was meant to sew.” “Which is?” I asked. “Freedom,” it said, before unraveling into punctuation marks. Arlo crouched beside me, eyes scanning the flickering ground. “If the Crown is rewriting definitions, it must be using this place as its loom. Everything that doesn’t fit gets dumped here. We find the anchor, we can cut the stitch.” “And if we can’t?” He glanced at me. “Then you talk the universe to death.” “Oh, honey,” I said, drawing my knife again. “That’s my second-best skill.” From above, a new light bled through the ceiling of threads—cold, white, royal. Madame Nettles was following. Her voice slithered down like silk. “Run if you like, my little swearword. But every sentence ends in a period.” “Yeah?” I yelled. “Then I’ll be a semicolon, bitch!” The ground trembled in laughter—or maybe it was mine. Either way, reality cracked open again, and Arlo dragged me through the tear into somewhere worse. Threadbare Gods & Other Lies We landed in a cathedral made of thread. Not stone, not glass—just miles of woven silk that flexed when you breathed. Every sound was muffled, like the air was holding its breath. Somewhere above, gears turned lazily, winding the universe one loop at a time. Beneath us, the fabric pulsed faintly. Alive. Hungry. I checked my knife; it whispered something obscene. I whispered back. Arlo stumbled to his feet, brushing glitter off his coat. “Okay, no big deal, just a divine sewing machine running on cosmic anxiety. Totally normal Thursday.” “If this thing starts singing, I’m burning it down,” I said, and meant it. At the center of the cathedral stood a dais. On it: the Thimble Crown, glowing like moonlight trapped in a migraine. Threads ran from it in every direction, connecting to the ceiling, the floor, the air itself. It was beautiful—if you like your beauty armed and unstable. Each pulse it sent rippled through reality, and I felt my pulse respond, in time, like it had found its drummer. “That’s not supposed to happen,” Arlo muttered. “It’s syncing with you.” “Figures,” I said. “The first time something syncs with me, it’s a cursed relic.” Madame Nettles appeared behind us like a rumor too proud to die. Her lace veil trailed across the threads without snagging—a neat trick in physics and malice. “Welcome to the Loom,” she said, voice echoing through the weave. “Every world has one. Most just pretend they don’t.” “You’re late,” I said. “I was about to start redecorating.” She smiled behind the lace. “You misunderstand. This place isn’t for decorating. It’s for editing.” Arlo stepped between us, because he has the suicidal impulse of a saint. “If she keeps the Crown,” he said, “she’ll overwrite existence with sarcasm and spite.” “Oh, please,” I said. “That’s an improvement.” Madame Nettles gestured toward the Crown. “Put it on, Zazariah. Finish the Manifesto. Write the final stitch. Unmake the lie of destiny.” “And what’s in it for you?” “Freedom. Chaos. An end to all patterns.” “Sounds exhausting.” Arlo hissed, “Don’t do it.” But the Crown was already singing to me, a perfect pitch between fury and temptation. I stepped closer, drawn by the pull of something that finally got me. Every insult, every eye roll, every stubborn refusal—it had all been leading to this: a job offer from entropy. I reached out, fingers trembling. And then, because I am who I am, I stopped. “You know what?” I said. “I’m not your protagonist. I’m not your thread. And I definitely don’t take fashion advice from ghosts in lace.” Madame Nettles’ expression tightened. “You can’t refuse destiny.” “Watch me.” I pulled my knife, sliced open my palm, and let my blood drip across the weave. The Loom convulsed, threads snapping like nerves. “If the world’s going to stitch itself to my words,” I said, “then here’s a new one: Undo.” The word hit like a detonation. Light flared, colors inverted, and for a moment everything—everything—laughed. Madame Nettles screamed as her veil shredded, revealing not a face but a gaping spool of thread that shrieked itself out of existence. The Crown trembled, cracked, and then melted into molten silver that poured itself into my wounds, sealing them with a hiss. When the light died, we were standing in the ruins of the Loom. The air was quiet. The threads were gone, replaced by stars arranged in no particular order—finally, beautifully random. “Did we win?” Arlo asked, eyes wide. “I don’t do winning,” I said. “I do surviving with flair.” He laughed, shaky. “So what now?” I looked down at my hands. The silver scars pulsed faintly, spelling something out in Morse: Write carefully. “Now,” I said, “we go home. I’m opening a bar.” “A bar?” “Sure. Call it The Punctuated Equilibrium. Drinks named after grammar crimes. Half-price shots for anyone who swears creatively.” He grinned. “And if the Queen comes looking for her Crown?” I smiled, sharp as scissors. “I’ll tell her I’m editing.” We climbed back through the wreckage, wings beating against the dawn. The city spread below us—chaotic, patched, real. I breathed in its smoke and music, the scent of rebellion and rain. The sky cracked pink, and for the first time in centuries, nobody was writing the ending but me. And I wasn’t planning to finish it anytime soon. Epilogue — The Manifesto Never trust a tidy story.Never iron your wings.And never, ever, let anyone else hold the needle.     🛒 Bring “The Punk Pixie Manifesto” Home Love a little rebellion with your décor? The Punk Pixie Manifesto refuses to behave on the wall, desk, or anywhere else you put it. Celebrate her attitude — half chaos, half charm — with these bold, high-quality creations. Framed Print — Add fierce elegance to your favorite space with museum-grade clarity and texture. Perfect for anyone who decorates with conviction (and sarcasm). Tapestry — Let her wings spread across your wall. Soft, vibrant, unapologetic — a centerpiece for the rule-breaker’s lair. Greeting Card — When “thinking of you” needs extra voltage. Perfect for birthdays, apologies, or unapologetic statements. 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par 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.

par 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.

par 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.

par 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.

par 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.

par 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.

par 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.

par 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.

par 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. 🎃

par 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.

par 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.

par 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.

par 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.