Fabric Fantasy : Le conte de la broderie du dragon vivant

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Winged Wonder in Thought

The Thinking Tree and the Moron with a GoPro Deep in the uncharted underbrush of Not-Quite-Wales-but-Might-As-Well-Be, where GPS signals go to die and the mushrooms whisper dirty secrets to the moss, there lived a creature so majestically weird that it made cryptid hunters weep into their beard oil. She was known — by drunk hikers, questionable druids, and mushroom enthusiasts alike — as Fizzlewitch the Winged Wonder. Fizzlewitch wasn’t born so much as she happened. Legend has it she materialized during an especially chaotic Beltane afterparty, in a sacred glade already three shandies deep in leyline interference. A raver named Clarity, wearing little more than glitter and spiritual indecision, dry-humped a fog machine beneath the waxing moon, and in the sudden blast of overcharged mist and someone shouting “Is that the moon or my third eye?”, there she was: perched on a tree branch, fully formed, judging everyone within a twenty-meter radius. She was eight feet of scaled enigma — iridescent, shimmering, and entirely too aware of her own mystique. Her body was humanoid in the way that a Picasso sketch of a mermaid might be considered accurate. Her skin, if you dared to call it that, shifted in shades of teal, bronze, and cosmic disappointment. Wings like stained-glass windows gone feral shimmered with colors that hadn’t been invented yet. Her face held the expression of someone who’d seen your browser history and was politely choosing not to comment. She sat, always, in the same spot — the branch of a twisted old birch tree ringed with pink daisy-like blooms that smelled vaguely like antique bookstores and regret. No one ever saw her land there. She was just… there. Pondering. Judging. Staring off into the middle distance like a philosophy major trapped in an eternal thesis defense. Locals dubbed the spot “The Thinking Tree,” and while none would dare approach it more closely than a respectful 27 feet (based on the radius of one unlucky bloke’s nosebleed), they’d gather nearby for rituals, awkward poetry readings, and sometimes just to sit and bask in her ambient superiority. Many theories surrounded Fizzlewitch. Some said she was a banshee with a business degree. Others believed she was the physical manifestation of a repressed scream. One man insisted — loudly and repeatedly — that she was his ex-girlfriend Debra in reincarnated lizard form, finally reaching her final phase of withholding eye contact. And always, without fail, came the warning: Don’t squeeze the daisies. This was a very specific prohibition. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t spiritual. It was literal: do not touch the damn flowers. Because those flowers? They were connected to her in ways no one understood — floral nerve endings of a fae beast too old and too whimsical to explain herself to anyone who didn’t at least meditate before coffee. And then, as these tales tend to go, along came someone stupid enough to ignore every single piece of whispered advice, folk wisdom, and laminated signage nailed to a nearby tree stump. Enter: Trevor. Trevor was a sentient affliction in human skin. A man-child fueled by beef jerky, vape juice, and the unearned confidence of someone who once mistook a wasp’s nest for “crunchy trail granola.” He’d recently gotten into “adventure spirituality,” which mostly involved doing unsupervised psychedelics while trying to seduce Instagram followers with shirtless selfies and half-remembered Alan Watts quotes. Armed with a GoPro, a Bluetooth speaker blasting trap remixes of Enya, and a sack of stale trail mix he’d called “shaman kibble,” Trevor set out to find and film the infamous Winged Wonder — all for his 14 TikTok followers, two of which were bots and one of which was his ex’s cousin who watched out of spite. “She just needs a little coaxing,” Trevor muttered, filming his boots as he stumbled through the underbrush. “A gentle squeeze of her environment, you know? Show her I respect her space by lightly fondling the botanical foreground.” As he arrived, he saw her — oh yes, Fizzlewitch was there, perched in her usual pose: one leg tucked, the other dangling, tail flicking lazily through the air like a velvet whip of disdain. She looked down at Trevor with the same expression a cat gives a Roomba. Silent. Patient. Amused. Until... He reached for the daisy. Now, dear reader, I know what you’re thinking: Surely he hesitated. Surely he paused at the edge of legend and said, “Perhaps this isn’t wise.” He did not. Trevor, in his tank top of questionable slogans and with the brain cells of an overheated toaster, squeezed the flower. And that’s when the air changed. That’s when the moss flinched. That’s when the birds, even the imaginary ones, took off screaming. That’s when Fizzlewitch the Winged Wonder finally moved. Trevor’s Consequences and the Great Floral Reckoning Time slowed the second Trevor’s grubby man-paw crunched down on the petal. It wasn't just a squeeze — it was a full-fisted grip like he was juicing the poor bloom for content. The moment he did it, the air pressure dropped like your dignity at a family karaoke night. The birds fell silent, the wind stopped breathing, and even the ferns recoiled like they’d just heard their parents arguing through the wall. Fizzlewitch’s expression didn’t change right away. That was the scariest part. For a full seven seconds, she held her usual face: calm, pensive, slightly constipated with ancient knowledge. And then — as if activated by some deeply buried kill command — she blinked once, slowly, and all hell broke gloriously loose. The branch she sat on creaked like a sentient seesaw fed up with millennia of this crap. Her wings unfolded in one fluid motion, stretching outward in a visual equivalent of a full-body eye-roll. Light refracted off her wing patterns, sending prismatic daggers of color slicing through the clearing. Trevor dropped his phone, fumbled to grab it, and accidentally hit “Live.” Thousands would watch the footage in stunned silence later, mostly to witness the precise moment a mystical fae-lizard-queen launched herself from her perch and punted a man halfway into a symbolic rebirth. “WHO THE HELL SQUEEZES A GODDAMN SENTIENT DAISY?” she bellowed, in a voice that sounded like thunder taught elocution lessons by RuPaul. The shockwave knocked Trevor into a gorse bush. He squealed like a wet ferret being baptized. The flowers around the tree vibrated violently, releasing a pollen cloud that smelled like lavender and bad decisions. Fizzlewitch descended upon him with wings flared and tail lashing behind her like a cosmic middle finger. “I—I didn’t mean anything! I was—content! I was gonna tag you!” Trevor sputtered, shielding his face with his vape pen like it was blessed by TikTok’s algorithm gods. “You wanted content?” she snarled, floating just above him. “I’ll give you content.” What happened next is still debated by folklorists, botanists, and one very traumatized squirrel. Some say the tree uprooted itself and gave Trevor the spanking of a lifetime. Others insist he was pulled into a secret dimension inside a daisy petal where he was forced to confront every awkward moment from puberty to the present in vivid, scented flashbacks. What we know for certain is this: Trevor lost his man bun in the first ten seconds. It left his skull like a frightened bird. His cargo shorts disintegrated upon contact with a summoned gust of dignity. He screamed. Oh gods, he screamed. But not in pain — in cringe. The raw emotional cringe of every bad decision made manifest in one awful, flower-wreathed reckoning. The daisies multiplied. One became hundreds, then thousands, sprouting from the soil like sentient guilt. Each one bore a tiny judgmental face. One looked just like his ex. One looked like his tax auditor. One looked like himself if he’d never dropped out of community college to start a podcast about energy drinks and conspiracy theories. Fizzlewitch circled him slowly, her tail sketching sigils into the air. She wasn’t angry now — no, she was methodical. Pitying. Like a guidance counselor for eldritch mistakes. “Trevor,” she said, voice dripping with honeyed mockery. “You wanted to be seen. You wanted attention. So now… you shall be known.” Trevor tried to crawl away. A vine slapped his ankle with the limp-wristed judgment of an exasperated gay uncle. He flopped onto his back, blinking pollen out of his eyes, and saw her descending again — not to strike, but to tap his forehead once with the tip of her claw. “There,” she whispered. “It is done.” And then she was gone. Poof. Vanished. One moment floating, radiant, pissed off in 4K — the next, nothing but petals and the low, humming laughter of the woods. Trevor lay in the dirt for what he would later describe as “an indeterminate eternity.” When he finally stumbled out of the forest, barefoot, shirtless, and emotionally exfoliated, he was a changed man. He never posted the footage. He deleted his account, burned his GoPro in a backyard sage fire, and opened a small ethical kombucha bar called “Fae-ferment.” He grows his own herbs now. He wears soft linen. He refers to himself as a “recovered influencer.” No one speaks of the incident. Except when they do. Loudly. Over beer. With laughter and impersonations and dramatic re-enactments at local fairs. And to this day, every so often, a daisy blooms on his patio that smells like judgment and glitter. The Legend Grows Legs and Gets a Podcast What happened to Trevor could’ve — in a just, boring world — faded into obscurity like a TikTok trend involving soup or questionable dancing. But this world, unfortunately for Trevor, is neither just nor boring. Especially when it comes to forest beings with flair for spectacle and a deeply passive-aggressive relationship with botany. It began innocently enough. A Reddit thread popped up in r/WeirdNature titled “Saw a sexy butterfly-lizard fairy scream a man into emotional nudity?” Within hours, it had 40k upvotes, 200 speculative illustrations, and an argument in the comments section that somehow turned into a debate about proper composting practices. Two weeks later, an amateur folklorist named Tilda NoPants (née Stevenson, but she rebranded after Burning Man) recorded a podcast episode titled “Wings of Wrath: The Thinking Tree Incident”. It shot to number one in three spiritual sub-genres: Alternative Lore, Cryptid Erotica, and Garden-Based Deities. Trevor, meanwhile, became a recluse celebrity. He was invited onto every woo-woo YouTube channel within a 500-mile radius. The BBC approached him for a docuseries. He declined. “She still visits me in dreams,” he said, twitching slightly, “and smells like bergamot and condescension.” And indeed… she did. Fizzlewitch, contrary to Trevor’s spiritual meltdown, was doing just fine. She’d moved a few branches down the tree, redecorated her perch with quartz, and occasionally rearranged the clouds above to spell things like “TOUCH THE DAISIES AGAIN, KEVIN. I DARE YOU.” She wasn’t vengeful. Not exactly. Just… invested in her branding. Some say she grew more powerful with every retelling. That every exaggeration online — every meme, every AI-generated drawing with too many fingers — fed her like cosmic likes. She became stronger, sassier, and slightly more symmetrical. Her wings grew additional hues visible only to those who had been humiliated publicly and survived. She even began appearing in other forests under different pseudonyms: The Pensive Pollen Queen in New Zealand, The Moisture Sprite of Portland, The Avian-Assed Oracle in Vermont. There were sightings. Witnesses. Merch. Eventually, someone launched a crypto-based eco-startup claiming to “protect the Thinking Tree” with NFTs of animated daisies that whispered affirmations. It lasted twelve days. All the digital daisies turned into pictures of Trevor sobbing on a moss-covered rock. Local governments tried to fence off the glade. The fences uprooted themselves and formed a small jazz band. A pagan-themed theme park tried to recreate the tree with papier-mâché. Fizzlewitch sneezed on the model and it burst into flames. The theme park is now a petting zoo and no one talks about the “emotional arson” incident. As for the original site of the event? Well, it’s still there. Wild. Unmapped. Strangely temperate year-round. Sometimes you’ll find a single daisy, bigger than the rest, with a faint shimmer on its petals and a low thrumming beneath your feet — like a heartbeat or a very patient bass drop. They say if you sit under the Thinking Tree and close your eyes, you can feel her gaze. It’s not unkind. Just... knowing. Watching. Like a cosmic older sister who’s seen too much and has a therapist on speed dial. She’s not angry — not unless you’re stupid. Or try to monetize her likeness without permission. And if you ever, ever get the idea to squeeze a daisy? Well. Just hope you packed clean underwear, a backup identity, and a working knowledge of interpretive dance. You’re gonna need it. Thus concludes the tale of the Winged Wonder in Thought. May your forest walks be contemplative, your flowers unmolested, and your cryptid encounters appropriately humbling.     If this utterly unhinged fae tale made you laugh, wince, or nervously re-evaluate your relationship with plants, you can now bring home the legend. From art prints worthy of your walls to a spiral notebook perfect for jotting down your own cryptid run-ins, Fizzlewitch has officially gone merch. There’s even a tapestry to hang in your sacred shame corner and a sticker to slap on your water bottle as a reminder not to squeeze strange foliage. And for those who like their legends with extra gloss, the acrylic print version adds that extra pop of cryptid fabulous. Explore the full line and immortalize the only daisy-related trauma worth commemorating.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Campfire Regrets

Marshwin T. Mallow had always been warned about the fire. "Keep your fluff three feet from the flame," his mother used to say. “Any closer and you’ll be a crème brûlée with abandonment issues.” But Marshwin, ever the thrill-seeker, was born to tempt fate — or at least tempt thermodynamics. And on one fateful, smoky, stick-snapping evening in Sizzlewood Forest, he made the worst decision of his gelatinous little life: he sat too damn close to the campfire. To be fair, the fire had *looked* romantic — all flickery and seductive like a Tinder date that promised s’mores but delivered STDs. The kind of fire that whispered, “Come hither, baby. Let me kiss your sugary dome.” Marshwin, puffy with pride and three shots of pine needle gin deep, took the bait. He dragged his stubby bottom across the dirt, wedging himself cozily between a mossy log and a pile of broken dreams (read: crunchy acorns and one suspiciously melted gummy bear). “Just gonna toast the buns a bit,” he mumbled to himself, adjusting his polka-dotted neckerchief — the one he wore for occasions when he wanted to look hot. Literal hot. Not fashion hot. Although if you asked him after two more gin shots, he’d tell you it was both. Five seconds in and the sweat was real. Not from panic — from the marshmallow equivalent of an armpit. His edges began to bulge. A thin veil of smoke rose from his scalp like a bad idea. His eyes widened, and a tiny, pained fart escaped from what could generously be called a "marshhole." “Aw hell,” he whispered, feeling his top begin to caramelize. “I’ve made a terrible mistake.” From across the firepit, his best friend Graham — a honey-wheat cracker with a crippling fear of heat — waved frantically. “GET OUTTA THERE, YOU STICKY IDIOT!” But Marshwin was already stuck. His gooey thighs had bonded with the bark beneath him. His lower fluff had begun to blister in places that weren’t covered in the marshmallow anatomy manual. And worst of all, his once-proud sheen was now a patchy, blistered wreck, like a melted bar of soap trying to cosplay as a glazed donut. In the woods behind him, a chorus of toasted nuts and charred licorice whispered legends of others who had dared flirt with combustion. “He’s the chosen goo,” one hissed. “The one they’ll call ‘The Half-Baked.’” As the campfire cracked louder — and Marshwin’s pride cracked louder still — something inside him snapped. Was it the sugar bonds? His sense of dignity? Or simply the feeling returning to his left mallow cheek? He didn’t know. But he was about to find out. And it involved a very awkward escape plan, a twig that looked suspiciously like a grappling hook, and the kind of groan that only comes from burning your metaphorical balls on literal firewood. Marshwin's internal monologue had long since turned into a full-blown mental meltdown, not unlike the slow-roasting calamity bubbling under his epidermis. As his upper puff smoldered like a busted ceiling tile at a vape convention, he began muttering a half-drunk survival mantra under his breath: “Stay calm. Don’t panic. You’re not stuck. You’re simply... aggressively adhered to bark with third-degree fluff trauma.” His left arm — let’s call it what it was, a stubby goo-nub with the flexibility of a licorice whip — wobbled toward the twig he’d spotted earlier. It looked kind of like a grappling hook if you squinted, spun three times, and were suffering heatstroke. Still, it was something. And Marshwin wasn’t about to die crispy. Not tonight. Not like this. Not with his marshhole exposed to the open air like a disgraced fondue fountain. He lunged. Or rather, he *attempted* to lunge. What actually happened was a pitiful shimmy, like a sentient marshmallow trying to twerk its way out of trauma. The singed bark clung to his undercarriage with the loyalty of a bad ex — refusing to let go and full of splinters. “GRAHAAAAAAAM!” he bellowed, his voice cracking like a stale wafer. “I need backup!” From behind a rock, Graham peeked out, trembling like a cracker at a vegan cheese convention. “Dude, I don’t *have* arms. I’m two flat planks held together by crippling anxiety and cinnamon dust!” “Then THROW SOMETHING! Chuck me a mushroom! A sock! YOUR DIGNITY!” Marshwin screamed. Instead, Graham hurled a pinecone. It struck Marshwin squarely in the face, bouncing off with a loud thwok and smearing sap across his toasted cheek like war paint. “NAILED IT!” Graham shouted, clearly unqualified for first aid or friendship. Meanwhile, things were escalating. A small squirrel had appeared, sniffing around the clearing like it had just stumbled upon the world’s most confused dessert. It stared at Marshwin, tilting its head. “Don’t even THINK about it, nut nugget,” Marshwin hissed. “I may be roasted, but I bite back.” Somewhere in the background, a disheveled raccoon with a headband and a hotdog skewer muttered, “You got any chocolate? We could complete the trifecta...” “BACK OFF, BANDIT CAT!” Marshwin shrieked, flailing wildly now. In a burst of desperation and molten shame, he yanked himself upward — bark and bits of moss ripping from beneath his scorched ass like a marshmallow molting into adulthood. The twig grapple caught a branch. For one glorious second, he was airborne. Gliding through the forest like a marshmallowy Tarzan of the Trees, screaming, “I REGRET EVERYTHING AND NOTHING!” He soared. He glistened. He briefly passed out from sugar loss and existential horror. And then — *WHAM.* He faceplanted into a muddy creek with all the grace of a microwaved jellyfish. Sputtering, smoking, and newly soaked, Marshwin crawled to the bank, trailing charred fluff and pondweed from his dignity-parts. Behind him, the forest was quiet. The fire crackled on in the distance, smug as hell. Graham finally caught up, panting and breathless. “You made it. Holy crap. You smell like burnt hope and sticky trauma.” “I’m a changed puff,” Marshwin wheezed, steam rising from every orifice. “No more fire. No more neckerchief flair. No more butt-scorching bravado.” He rolled onto his back, looking at the stars. “From now on... I live a cool life. Like, refrigerator-chilled... popsicle-monk... no-spark lifestyle. I'm going full Zen Snack.” “You’ll last a week,” Graham said flatly. “Probably less,” Marshwin sighed. “But damn if I didn’t look hot while nearly dying.” Next: A mysterious traveler offers Marshwin a new purpose... and maybe a pair of pants. The next morning arrived like a hangover in a nun’s confessional — silent, judgy, and full of regrets. Marshwin T. Mallow lay motionless on a flat rock, steam gently hissing from his pores. His once-pristine fluff now resembled a half-sucked pillow mint that had been dropped in gravel and dunked in regret. Every inch of him ached. Even the bits that didn’t technically exist on the marshmallow anatomy chart. Like his sense of pride. And whatever was left of his marsh-nuts. “I feel like a microwaved napkin,” he muttered. “You smell like a failed crème brûlée that cheated on its diet,” Graham chimed in, chewing thoughtfully on a stick he’d mistaken for an oat bar. “Honestly, I’m proud of you. You finally outran both the fire and your own overconfidence. That’s growth. Or combustion. Hard to tell with you.” Marshwin tried to flip him off but could only manage a floppy wiggle of his semi-melted hand nub. “Shut up and go find me a loofah. I’ve got bark in crevices I didn’t know I had.” That’s when the shadow appeared — long, ominous, and shaped like an overfed marshmallow in a trench coat. From the trees stepped a figure none of them had ever seen, though they instantly felt like he’d been lurking in the back of their cookbook all along. He was tall. Puffy. Lightly dusted in cocoa powder like he was born of a barista’s fever dream. He wore a crooked toffee monocle and walked with a graham cracker cane. His name was whispered only once, but that was enough: “S’morris,” Graham whispered. “The Charred One. The legendary snack who survived triple-roast s’moregery and a camping trip with teenagers...” “Shut your crumbs,” S’morris growled, voice smooth like marshmallow jazz. “I heard there was a little puff who got singed but didn’t melt. A sweetling who thought he could tango with fire and not end up a puddle on a cracker. That you, Toastboy?” Marshwin sat up slowly, the scorched bark fused to his backside cracking like cheap ceramics. “What’s it to you, Sugarpimp?” S’morris smiled. “I like your attitude. Arrogant. Roasted. Gooey in all the wrong places. You’ve got what it takes. Ever heard of the Toasted Order?” “Is that some kind of cult?” Marshwin asked. “Because I already drank enough pine gin last night to hallucinate a squirrel with a knife.” “No,” S’morris said. “It’s a support group. For the singed. The caramelized. The ones who’ve flown too close to the flame, got their asses burnt, and came out... seasoned.” Marshwin blinked. “You want me to join a gang of emotionally scarred snack foods?” “We meet Thursdays,” S’morris added. “We swap stories. Trade SPF tricks. Learn how to walk again without leaving streaks. Sometimes we fight raccoons. Mostly for sport.” Marshwin looked down at his crispy hands. Then at Graham. Then at the firepit in the distance, where smoke still danced like the ghost of his roasted past. “Fine,” he said, “But only if you’ve got pants. I’m tired of moss rash.” S’morris pulled a pair of custom-tailored s’more-shorts from inside his coat — woven from licorice strands, lined with powdered sugar, and tastefully embroidered with the words “Too Sweet to Die.” “Welcome to the Order, Toastboy.” Over the next several weeks, Marshwin trained with the Order of the Toasted. He mastered the ancient ways of the Sear-Slip. He learned to extinguish himself in three seconds or less. He even achieved Marshmallow Inner Peace (M.I.P.), which involved deep breathing and controlled melting. They traveled the woods. Preached fire safety to reckless teens. Set squirrel traps made of peanut butter and sarcasm. And every night, around a controlled, regulated firepit with a perimeter of gravel and safety signage, Marshwin would share his story — of ego, combustion, escape... and sticky redemption. One day, he returned to that same log where it all began. The bark still bore his butt-mark — a fossil of fluff and shame. Marshwin smiled, placed a graham cracker flower at the site, and whispered, “Thanks for the trauma. You taught me how to live cool.” Then he farted softly and walked into the sunset, his sugar-pants rustling in the breeze.     Bring the Roast Home 🔥 Marshwin’s tragicomic tale of toasty survival is now immortalized in art — perfect for those who like their décor equal parts whimsical and well-done. Framed Prints bring the full, singed glory of Marshwin’s meltdown to your walls, while the sleek Metal Prints add an extra layer of fireproof flair. Prefer your humor on natural textures? The Wood Prints give rustic charm to this campfire catastrophe. Challenge yourself (or your friends) to piece together every glorious bit of Marshwin’s gooey trauma with a delightfully ridiculous Jigsaw Puzzle, or carry his legacy with you into the wild with our versatile Tote Bag — ideal for snacks, regret, and emergency marshmallow repellant. Because nothing says “I’ve got great taste” like celebrating the life of a mildly traumatized, partially caramelized marshmallow legend.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Seasons of the Hunter

The Amber Eye of Thal They said the forest was split by an ancient curse — one that stitched time along a crooked seam. On the left side of the path, the world still bled with the warmth of fall; brittle leaves crunched underfoot, burnt-orange maples clawed at the dying light, and the air was spiced with rot and memory. To the right, winter had already carved its claim. Icy breath lingered like ghosts between silver pines, the snow as clean and silent as the grave. Between them, it walked. The tiger. But not just a tiger — Thal, the Ember-Eyed, the Relic, the Whispering Death. His paws made no sound, though the earth shivered in his wake. Every step was deliberate, ancient. He wasn’t just walking through seasons; he was walking through them — the gods, the hunters, the fools who once tried to bind him in chains made of prophecy and ego. Spoiler: it didn’t go well for them. Thal’s gaze glinted gold, not from the sun (which had the sense to keep its distance), but from something deeper. A memory, perhaps, or a thousand of them stacked like bones beneath his ribs. To look into his eyes was to feel time laugh at your mortality. From the frost-cloaked evergreens, a shape stirred. A man, wrapped in wolf pelts, stepped from the shadows with the arrogance of someone who hadn’t yet been educated by regret. He bore a spear longer than himself, etched with sigils that sizzled faintly against the cold air. A hunter, no doubt. Thal did not slow. “You walk toward death,” the man called, raising the spear. “Return to your side of the forest, beast. You do not belong here.” Thal paused. The leaves rustled. The snow sighed. And the tiger—yes, the one with paws like thunder and a heart older than most mountains—smirked. At least, that’s what the wind whispered. They always say that. With a motion so smooth it might’ve been a thought, Thal lunged—not at the man, but at the air between them, cleaving space itself. And in that breath, everything shifted. Trees tilted. The spear turned to ash. The hunter screamed. Not in pain—yet—but in the realization that he’d just become part of the story. And worse, not the hero. Thal padded forward as if nothing had happened, leaving behind a smear of melted snow and a man on his knees, sobbing into the scent of burning bark. The tiger’s eyes flicked to the horizon. Something bigger stirred. He could feel it waking. Not a hunter. Not prey. Something else. And it had his scent in its throat already. So much for a quiet stroll between seasons. The Cold God’s Hunger Deep beneath the roots of the winter side, where frost had gnawed away the bones of civilizations, something shifted. Not the innocent stirrings of woodland life, but a pull, as if gravity itself was reconsidering its allegiance. The Cold God was waking. And Thal could feel its hunger like static between his fangs. He’d met it once. Just once. Back when gods still bled the same color as their believers and thrones were built from the skulls of saints. Back then, it had worn the face of a child — a little boy made of rime and sorrow, who whispered promises to dying kings. Thal hadn’t liked the child. He’d left claw marks on its palace walls and teeth in its priests. And still, the thing had smiled. But that was another forest. Another age. Another Thal, before the centuries had taught him the delight of patience. Before sarcasm became his only shield against the divine absurdity of this world. Now, as he stalked the treacherous line between autumn’s decline and winter’s dominion, the forest around him began to convulse with quiet betrayal. Crows stopped mid-caw. The wind folded its wings. Time dared not breathe too loudly. The path ahead curved unnaturally, bending like a ribcage trying to cage him in. Oh, how they tried. “Still alive, Thal?” croaked a voice like a dying fire under wet wood. It came from above—a broken pine twisted in the shape of a woman, her bark bleeding sap that steamed as it touched snow. Thal glanced up. “Sylfa. Still rooted in bad decisions, I see.” The dryad cackled, a sound like snapped kindling. “The Cold God wants your pelt, old friend.” “He can want all he likes. So can the moon.” “He dreams of you. Of fire. Of endings.” “Then he dreams wrong.” The tree-woman’s laughter shivered into the branches above, triggering an avalanche somewhere unseen. Thal didn’t stop. He never stopped. That was the first rule of survival for a creature like him. Movement wasn’t just instinct; it was ritual. Keep walking, keep breathing, keep mocking the gods until they were too tired or too confused to smite you properly. Still, he could feel the Cold God now. It was no longer a whisper beneath the ground, but a presence bulging at the seams of reality. It was not frost. It was not wind. It was something much worse: the absence of all that had ever meant warmth. It devoured memory, ambition, even pain — leaving behind numb obedience. Its faithful called it mercy. Thal called it cowardice wrapped in holy frostbite. And it had just stepped onto the path behind him. Not walked. Not emerged. Just… was. A figure ten feet tall, draped in robes of shifting snow, face hidden beneath a jagged mask of antlers and glass. Wherever it stepped, autumn died. Even Thal’s breath came slower, his body tensing as his primal bones remembered the cost of overconfidence. The trees bent toward it. Time hiccuped again. “Tiger,” it said in a voice that didn’t echo because sound refused to linger around it. “Oh good,” Thal replied. “It talks. That’ll make this one-sided conversation slightly less boring.” “You have crossed the line.” “I invented the line,” Thal growled, circling. “You’re just squatting on it like some frostbitten beggar in need of relevance.” The Cold God lifted one hand. The spear that had turned to ash earlier reformed in its grip — sleek, elegant, and made from a single shard of frozen time. Behind it, the dryad gasped and turned to ice with a sharp, pitiful crack. No cackle this time. Just silence and regret. Thal didn’t flinch. Didn’t run. He crouched. Muscles like coiled storms surged beneath striped fur. There was no preamble, no warning roar, no cinematic leap into destiny. He simply moved. The impact was apocalyptic. The forest howled. Snow exploded. The spear clanged against his flank with a sound that shattered the air into crystals. Thal’s claws found purchase — not in flesh, but in memory — digging into the Cold God’s form and tearing away the illusion of invincibility. For a heartbeat, the mask cracked. Beneath it: eyes like dying stars. They both recoiled. And in that pause, something even worse happened: the forest began to change. The line between seasons widened, split open like a wound. From it, a third force emerged — not cold, not heat, but void. An absence so complete it made winter look warm. Thal landed, eyes darting. He hadn’t expected a third player. He hated plot twists. “What in the Nine Groaning Hells is that?” he muttered, ears flattening. The Cold God didn’t answer. It just backed away, robes folding into the snow as if hiding was an acceptable response now. And maybe it was. Because the thing emerging wasn’t a god. Wasn’t mortal. Wasn’t even real in the way forests or tigers or sarcastic inner monologues were. It looked like Thal. But it wasn’t him. Not anymore. The Echo in the Skin The creature was a parody of Thal—same shape, same stripes, same gold-flecked eyes—but every detail felt… off. Its coat didn’t shimmer, it absorbed light. Its paws left no tracks, not because it was weightless, but because the earth refused to acknowledge its presence. It looked like a tiger, but it moved like a shadow trying to remember what it once was. Thal lowered his head, not in submission but in concentration. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Somewhere in the frozen branches above, birds fell dead from sheer proximity to the thing’s presence. “You’re late,” Thal growled, voice low and bitter. “I was hoping to die before I had to meet myself.” The Echo tilted its head, mirroring the gesture with uncanny timing. Its eyes, his eyes, burned back with nothing but silent amusement… and a hunger that made the Cold God look like a bedtime story. “What is it?” croaked the Cold God, still recoiling, more shadow now than shape. “A mistake,” Thal said flatly. “A leftover from an old spell. From a war they tried to erase. My soul was split once—by force, by fire, by idiots who thought balance required duplicity. They carved out everything I was willing to burn to survive… and stitched it into that.” The Echo moved forward—graceful, mocking, patient. Around it, the seam of seasons collapsed. Autumn withered. Winter turned to slush. The path disappeared under layers of reality folding like wet paper. Thal dug in, claws scraping frost and fallen bark, trying to anchor himself in a world that no longer knew what “real” meant. The Cold God was gone. Coward. Figures. He always was an idea more than a god anyway—powerful, sure, but only in the way regret is powerful. It lingers, but it never wins. Thal lunged. But the Echo didn’t resist. It welcomed him. Their bodies collided not with violence but fusion—a scream of memory unspooling, identities clashing like tectonic plates. Thal roared. Not in pain. In defiance. The forest split wide. Trees bent into rings. The sky cracked open. He was drowning in himself and biting his way out at the same time. Every kill. Every legend. Every lie told around campfires about the Ember-Eyed Tiger. They bled through him like wildfire through dry grass. For a heartbeat, he was both—the myth and the monster. Then the moment tipped. He remembered. Not the battles. Not the hunger. Not even the gods. He remembered why he had survived. Why he had walked across centuries of war and peace and stupidity. Not for vengeance. Not for power. But for choice. He was the one creature left that the world could not predict. That choice—every deliberate footstep between the seasons—was his defiance, his rebellion against becoming another cog in the divine machine. And he would not give it up to some soul-born echo stitched together by cowards with altars and delusions. With a roar that cracked glaciers, Thal sank his teeth into the Echo’s throat—and ripped. Not flesh. Not blood. Possibility. The thing unraveled, screaming in a hundred tongues before silence took it like sleep. And then, stillness. Thal stood alone. The forest lay quiet, like a child pretending not to breathe under a blanket. The seasons had returned to their border—autumn rich and warm, winter cold and watching. He stepped forward. Just one pace. But it was enough. The world exhaled. Behind him, the void hissed and closed. No more echoes. No more gods. No more destiny clawing at his back like ticks. He had walked between the seasons and come out whole. Mostly. “Still got it,” Thal muttered, licking a drop of starlight from his paw. “Someone tell the gods I’m not done being inconvenient.” And with that, he disappeared into the blaze of fallen leaves, leaving pawprints that would never freeze… and a story too strange for the Cold God to ever retell.     Bring the myth home with you. If Thal's journey through time and shadow stirred something primal in your soul, honor the legend with one of our exquisite woven wall tapestries, or channel the tiger’s dual-season power in your daily life with a stunning wood print or plush fleece blanket. Want a bit of beastly boldness in your bath routine? Try our ultra-vivid bath towel that roars with wild style. Each piece immortalizes the intensity and mystery of Thal’s legend, making it more than decor—it’s a declaration.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Florals and Folklore

The Bloomfather Spring had officially sprung in the hamlet of Mossbottom, and the pollen was drunk on its own power. Birds were tweeting unsolicited advice, bees were aggressively speed-dating every flower, and squirrels were shaking their fuzzy behinds at anyone who looked remotely annoyed by joy. And right in the thick of this blossoming madness stood the one gnome to rule them all—Magnus Bloomwhiff, known in underground gardening circles as The Bloomfather. Magnus was not your average garden gnome. For one thing, he refused to wear red hats, calling them “flamboyant clichés.” Instead, he sported a knitted mustard beanie he’d allegedly stolen off a confused hipster in Portland during a tulip festival gone rogue. His beard? Braided like a Norse saga with tiny sprigs of lavender and rogue glitter, the kind that haunts your home until Yule. Today was The Day. The Equinox Bloom-Off. A sacred, slightly drunken tradition where every forest-dwelling creature with a green thumb, paw, or tentacle brought their best bouquet to the Great Mossy Stump of Judgment. Magnus, never one to half-ass his florals, had been preparing for this since late February, when most of the other gnomes were still curled up in cinnamon-scented hibernation blankets binge-watching cryptid soap operas. “You’re overdoing it again,” muttered his cousin Fizzle, a gnome whose default expression was a judgmental squint and who believed basil was “too spicy.” “You can’t overdo spring, Fizzle,” Magnus replied, cradling his creation with the tender awe of a midwife catching a glowing unicorn placenta. “You can only rise to meet her, like a brave soldier charging a field made entirely of seasonal allergies and bees who want to date you.” The bouquet was glorious. Not just tulips—no no, that would be predictable. Magnus’s bouquet was an **experience**: orange tulips kissed with gold shimmer powder, purple freesia twisted into a spiral of seduction, daffodils that literally giggled when touched, and something suspiciously magical that sparkled when nobody was looking directly at it. By the time he waddled to the stump, the competition was already in full bloom. Fern fairies in leaf-sequined leggings glared at each other over pansy arrangements like they were prepping for a dance battle. A badger in a cravat presented a bouquet arranged in the shape of Queen Barkliza III. Someone had even entered with a carnivorous display titled “Spring Eats Back.” Magnus stepped up. The crowd went hushed. Even the aggressively horny bees stopped mid-thrust. He held the bouquet aloft like a garden-born Excalibur and cried out in his famously scandalous voice, “Behold! The Bloomination!” Gasps. Applause. A spontaneous haiku composed by a chipmunk with a lute. It was going swimmingly—until the bouquet let out a sneeze and a puff of glitter-fused pollen exploded in every direction, sending fairies into allergic fits and temporarily turning the badger’s cravat into a tulip-themed parasol. “Oops,” Magnus whispered. “Might’ve used too much ent-pollen.” “You idiot!” hissed Fizzle, now sparkling against his will. “You weaponized your florals!” But it was too late. The Bloomfather’s bouquet was... evolving. And the forest, so fond of order and pollen-permitted debauchery, was about to get a serious makeover. The Petalpocalypse The air shimmered with an unnatural hue—somewhere between rose gold and “whoops.” Magnus Bloomwhiff, still clutching his mutinous bouquet, stared in dumbstruck awe as the ent-pollen supercharged his flowers into what could only be described as sentient botanical theater. The tulips grew mouths. Beautiful ones, pouty and smirking, whispering garden secrets in French-accented nonsense. The freesia began reciting Shakespeare. Backwards. The daffodils? Now had legs. Several pairs. And they were tapping. “Sweet seed of Sunroot,” Fizzle moaned, hiding under a compostable umbrella. “They’re forming... a chorus line.” Magnus, on the other hand, was gleeful. “I KNEW spring would break into song eventually.” It was around that time the Mossbottom Bloom-Off devolved from lighthearted competition into a full-scale Petalpocalypse. Pollen clouds mushroomed into the sky. Vines shot from the bouquet like gossip from a pixie’s lips, entangling judges, contestants, and a few poor squirrels trying to discreetly pee behind a fern. The enchanted bouquet levitated, spinning slowly like a diva making a slow-motion entrance on a reality show. The crowd panicked. Fairies screamed and flew into each other. A wood sprite hyperventilated into a toadstool. Someone accused the bouquet of being an agent of the Spring Rebellion—a radical underground movement demanding longer mating seasons and petal-based universal income. “This is exactly how the Blossom Riots of ’09 started,” groaned an elderly mushroom. But Magnus, ever the showman, climbed on top of the Great Mossy Stump with all the calm of a gnome who once dated a dryad with anger issues and had nothing left to fear. “Everyone, relax!” he boomed. “This is simply a manifestation of spring’s wild, fertile chaos. We asked her to bloom. Well—she did. Now let her speak!” The bouquet, now spinning in place and glittering with pollen like a botanical disco ball, spoke in a collective whispery harmony: “Prepare yourselves for the Age of Bloom. All shall petal, none shall prune.” “A talking bouquet?” a goblin scoffed. “Next thing you know, my begonias’ll be unionizing.” But they did. Not just his. Every plant in a 300-yard radius perked up, shimmied like they’d heard gossip, and began to dance. Moss waved. Ivy wrapped itself into cursive and started spelling dirty limericks. Even the lichen had opinions now, and most of them were sarcastic. Somewhere in the chaos, Magnus and Fizzle were pulled into an impromptu conga line led by a tap-dancing trillium named Bev. “We should probably fix this,” Fizzle grumbled, ducking a flirtatious fern’s advance. “Or lean in,” Magnus said, eyes alight. “We could broker peace between plant and gnome. Be the bridge! The bloom whisperers! The chlorophyll diplomats!” “You just want to be king of the dancing flowers.” “Not king. Emperor.” After three hours of conga-ing, pollen burlesque, and one awkward group marriage between a pinecone, a pansy, and a confused raccoon, the bouquet began to wilt—its power fading with the setting sun. With a sigh and a glittery puff, the magical chaos ebbed away. Flowers returned to their usual non-verbal selves. Moss returned to being soft and judgmental. Even the tap-dancing daffodils bowed and politely ceased existing, as if they knew their time was done. Magnus stood on the stump, shirtless (when had that happened?), chest heaving, beard full of blossoms and two confused ladybugs. The crowd—bedraggled, bewildered, and blinking glitter out of their eyelashes—stared in silence. And then, thunderous applause. Confetti. A badger sobbing into a bouquet of crocuses. A fairy fainted and fell directly into the punch bowl, where she remained sipping through a straw for the rest of the evening. Magnus, still high on the intoxicating mix of pollen and approval, turned to the crowd. “Spring is not a season, my friends. It is a state of chaotic, blooming, feral glory. And I, Magnus Bloomwhiff, am her ambassador!” The mayor of Mossbottom, an ancient hedgehog in a monocle, grudgingly handed Magnus a sash reading “Bloom-Off Grand Champion and Reluctant Floral Messiah.” Fizzle, sipping something suspiciously fizzy, raised an eyebrow. “So what now?” Magnus smirked. “Now we rest. We bloom again tomorrow.” And with that, he strutted home barefoot through a field of daisies that somehow parted in reverence, leaving behind sparkles, scandal, and a legend that would live on in the petals of every mischievous bloom for generations to come. And somewhere in the background, the tulip bouquet quietly giggled… plotting.     If the chaotic charm of Magnus Bloomwhiff and his legendary bouquet made you giggle, grin, or crave a tap-dancing daffodil of your own, don’t worry—you can now bring that springtime sass to your own home. “Florals and Folklore” is available in a variety of enchanting formats. Adorn your walls with a Framed Art Print or a sleek Metal Print, perfect for capturing every glitter-dusted wrinkle in glorious detail. Take Magnus on the go with a vibrant Tote Bag that screams “chaotic garden energy,” or send some spring mischief in the mail with a collectible Greeting Card. Each item is infused with that same playful magic—minus the allergy-triggering ent-pollen, we promise.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Ember-Eyed Wanderer

Of Hoodies and Horns The forest of Merribark was not on any map, mostly because the cartographers who found it never made it out again—distracted by the intoxicating scent of maple-sugar moss and the unsolicited life advice given by the ferns. Some claimed the trees whispered gossip about local wildlife. Others said the squirrels held tiny séances and debated philosophy. But none of these eccentricities compared to the real enigma of Merribark: the ember-eyed creature in the hoodie. He had no name—or rather, he had so many that he simply shrugged when asked. The owls called him "Snugglehorn." The chipmunks used “The Fuzzy Prophet.” The humans, few and flustered as they were, referred to him only as "Oh My God What Is That—It’s So Cute—AAAAAH." He just went with “Wanderer,” which sounded mysterious and chic. Our Wanderer had the vibe of a creature that drank oat milk lattes, listened to forest lo-fi, and probably had an Etsy shop for enchanted pinecones. With plush white fur, oversized ears blushing with warmth, and twin antelope-like horns peeking through a shaggy mop of fluff, he was the kind of creature you'd want to cuddle, unless you disliked unsolicited sarcasm from woodland beings. Today, like many other days, he sat cross-legged on his favorite log wearing his mustard-toned hoodie—too big, slightly frayed, and enchanted to always smell like cinnamon rolls. Leaves drifted lazily down around him, performing aerial ballet. He watched them fall with an expression that suggested deep contemplation, though in truth, he was just wondering if it was too early for second breakfast. “You’re philosophizing again, aren’t you?” came a voice from the ferns, brittle and judgmental. It was Twiggy, a very sharp-tongued hedgehog with bangs and a dramatic sigh. She emerged with all the flair of a diva suffering a wardrobe malfunction, dragging a mini handbag made from acorn caps and sass. “Only about bread, darling,” said Wanderer, blinking his glowing eyes slowly. “Why do we bake it, slice it, and then toast it? Isn’t that emotional whiplash for the wheat?” “You need a hobby. Or a boyfriend,” Twiggy sniffed. “Or a therapist. Or all three. Probably in that order.” “You’re just upset because the mushroom you married turned out to be a toadstool in disguise.” “We do not speak of Reginald the Deceiver,” she hissed. “Besides, he was too spongy anyway.” Just then, a frantic bluebird dive-bombed through the clearing, panting in short, tweet-sized bursts. “HE’S COMING! THE TWO-LEGGED GIANT!” The entire forest paused mid-wind-blow. Leaves froze in midair. Even the judgmental ferns stiffened their fronds. Wanderer, meanwhile, adjusted his hoodie like a fashion influencer preparing for a live stream. “Oh yes, the one with the camera and the tragic man-bun,” he said. “Chadwick.” “He brings gluten,” whispered a squirrel reverently from the shadows. “He steps on fungi,” muttered a mushroom bitterly. Wanderer sighed, stood up, and brushed his tiny paws off on his hoodie. “Well, let’s not be rude. We’ll give him a proper Merribark welcome. Someone fetch the sarcasm wreath and the ‘You Tried’ banner.” By the time Chadwick stumbled into the clearing—half-mulched by brambles, holding his DSLR like it was an ancient relic—the forest scene had been curated to Pinterest-worthy perfection. Wanderer perched regally on his log, leaves spiraling behind him like nature’s confetti, eyes glowing like warm bourbon lit by fairy light. Chadwick gasped. “You’re… real.” Wanderer tilted his head. “Define ‘real.’ Existentially? Metaphysically? Or just tax-deductible?” Chadwick began clicking frantically. “This is going viral. I’m going to call you ‘Forest Catfox!’” “That’s offensive,” Twiggy growled from a branch. “He’s a Forest Dramaturge.” “I’m more of an Emotional Support Goblin,” Wanderer said with a shrug. “But I’ll let it slide for a croissant.” Chadwick, dazed and elated, kept snapping photos, unaware that the squirrels had already started rummaging through his backpack, assessing the value of his granola bars in acorn currency. And that’s when the whisper started, soft and eerie: a voice among the trees, unmistakably annoyed. It wasn’t Chadwick. It wasn’t Twiggy. And it definitely wasn’t one of the squirrels (though they could be dramatic). It was something older. Wilder. Grumpier. And mildly damp-smelling. The forest shivered. The leaves dropped like dead gossip. And Wanderer… Wanderer stood up straighter. Adjusted his hoodie. And whispered, “Oh fungus muffins. She’s awake.” The Slumbering Grump and the Granola Apocalypse The forest of Merribark was not accustomed to drama. Sure, there were the occasional turf disputes between badgers and raccoons (usually over who left peanut butter on the communal hammock). And yes, the annual “Mushroom Masquerade” sometimes ended with a few intoxicated toadstools face-down in the duck pond. But *this* was different. Because She had awakened. Deep beneath the glade, where roots knotted like secret handshakes and the earth hummed with unsent emails from Mother Nature, something ancient stirred: Grumple Griselda, the disgruntled fungus queen, was no longer dormant. She was awake, crusty, and she was hungry. “You didn’t tell me you lived over a spore mat,” Chadwick whispered, eyes wide behind his ironically large glasses. “Technically, I rent it. On a very flexible mycelium sublease,” Wanderer replied, cracking his knuckles like a woodland chiropractor. “But semantics aside—yes. We are standing on the grumpy fungal womb of doom. And you brought peanut butter trail mix. Excellent.” “That wasn’t me!” Chadwick hissed. “That was the influencer I dated last week! I’m more of a keto sunflower seed guy!” “Oh, you’re that guy,” Twiggy said, hopping down with a sniff. “The one who won’t shut up about gut biome and 'intermittent enlightenment.'” “Wanderer,” a voice rumbled from the soil itself. “Is that a human I smell?” “You smell that?” Wanderer muttered. “That’s ancient mold resentment mixed with existential dread and body lotion called ‘Forest Seduction.’” The ground trembled. From a slowly splitting mound of moss and dirt rose a towering column of sentient mushroom—hulking, multicolored, and wildly over-accessorized in damp velvet and beetle-shell jewelry. Griselda, Her Sponginess, emerged like an angry sourdough starter granted mobility. “YOU.” Her voice sloshed across the clearing like gravy rage. “You let another one in. Another two-leg. With hair gel!” “Chadwick, do not—do not—try to negotiate,” Wanderer warned. But Chadwick had already stepped forward, pulling out a bag of gluten-free trail mix like an offering to a snacky goddess. “It’s vegan?” Griselda blinked. Then blinked again. Then released a sound that could only be described as a mycological snort. “You think you can bribe me with roasted chickpeas? CHILD, I was fermenting before your ancestors even knew how to boil an egg!” “That’s true,” Twiggy piped up. “She’s older than regret.” “And just as clingy,” Wanderer added. “But she also really loves interpretive dance. Maybe we distract her.” “With dance?” Chadwick gasped. “With interpretive existential dread dance,” Twiggy clarified. “Big difference.” And so it began. In the center of the forest clearing, the most awkward flashmob in magical history unfolded. Squirrels somersaulted with nut-cluster precision. Frogs leapt in chaotic jazz sequences. Twiggy twirled like an angry pretzel, while Chadwick—bless his soft-shelled soul—attempted a combination of tai chi and a mid-2000s boy band routine. Wanderer, meanwhile, simply stood still, eyes glowing brighter than before, hoodie rippling in the wind like he was in an emotionally complicated shampoo commercial. Griselda narrowed her eyes. “What is this?” she demanded, swaying. “A ritual?” “A vibe,” Wanderer replied smoothly. “A forest reclaiming its narrative through kinetic vulnerability and granola-averse choreography.” Griselda paused. Blinked again. “...It’s working. My rage… it’s slowing…” “Careful,” Twiggy hissed. “She’s entering her sentimental fermentation phase.” “This is when she’s most dangerous,” Wanderer added. “If she starts quoting ancient mushroom poetry, we’re doomed.” “Let the moss beneath us bear witness,” Griselda began, her voice softening into a tragic, echoing croon, “to the cycle of growth and rot… for even the firmest fungi… must one day… split…” Chadwick burst into tears. “That’s so beautiful.” “He’s been emotionally compromised,” said a badger wearing monocles. “Time to engage Protocol Nutshake.” Before anyone could ask what that was, a chipmunk rocketed out of the underbrush riding a red squirrel bareback and wielding two pinecone maracas. The scene dissolved into joyful chaos as woodland creatures celebrated the near-aversion of disaster through interpretive art and accidental snack diplomacy. Griselda, touched by the bizarre communal ritual, slowly receded into her fungal dormancy. “Fine,” she grumbled. “You may keep your camera monkey. But I expect seasonal tributes. And at least one heartfelt ballad about the tragedy of mold.” “I’ll have Chadwick write an indie folk song,” Wanderer promised. “It’ll have banjo. And melancholy.” “Better have accordion,” Griselda muttered, sinking back into the dirt. “Or I will rise again…” By nightfall, the forest had returned to a semi-chaotic peace. The squirrels were tipsy on fermented berries. Chadwick had 347 blurry photos and one accidental selfie with Griselda. Twiggy had started selling tiny bottles of forest-scented oil labeled “Spores & Sass.” And Wanderer? He returned to his log, hoodie fluffed, sipping tea brewed from leaves that giggled when plucked. “So,” Twiggy asked, curling beside him. “Think he’ll come back?” “Probably,” Wanderer said with a sly smile. “Humans love mystery. And granola. And I am, if nothing else… extremely photogenic.” The stars blinked awake above Merribark, as soft laughter echoed through the trees and the forest whispered secrets to itself. And somewhere, far below, a mushroom queen dreamt of accordions. The End.     Bring the magic home: If “The Ember-Eyed Wanderer” stole your heart, whispered to your inner mischief, or made you cackle into your tea, you can now bring a piece of Merribark Forest into your world. From soft furnishings to gallery-worthy wall art, this enchanting scene is available in a variety of charming formats to suit every adventurer’s den. Tapestry: Perfect for creating a cozy reading nook or dreamy bedroom vibe, this fabric art brings the wanderer’s forest glow into any space. Canvas Print: Museum-quality texture with a rustic touch—ideal for showcasing this whimsical scene in your home gallery. Metal Print: Bold, luminous, and modern—this sleek print makes the glowing eyes and autumn tones pop with spellbinding clarity. Throw Pillow: Soft enough for squirrel naps and stylish enough for enchanted living rooms. Cozy up with forest flair! Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in woodland whimsy—ideal for chilly evenings, tea rituals, or pretending you're napping in a magical glade. Explore the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com and let the ember-eyed mischief-maker spark stories in your space.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Born of Flame, Breathed by Ocean

The Split of Aeralune There was a time when the world breathed as one. Before the forests divided themselves from the desert, before thunder argued with flame, and before memory was fractured by the weight of regret—there was Aeralune. She was not born, not exactly. She was the moment fire kissed water for the first time and chose not to consume it. A balance so perfect, so impossibly unstable, that even the stars wept to witness it. Her left eye glowed like the final ember in a dying world. Her right shimmered with the stillness of abyssal trenches. Her skin, cracked and charred on one side, pulsed with molten life; the other, cool and wet, bore the scent of moss and monsoon. She stood not at the edge of two realms, but within the very fracture of them—fire and water fused, harmony incarnate. Aeralune’s existence was not peace, but tension—an eternal negotiation. The flames within her whispered of rebirth through destruction, a cycle of cleansing that required no mercy. The water urged patience, the kind that shaped canyons and nurtured life in silence. And between them, her soul bent, like a tree leaning toward both sun and rain. Neither master, neither servant. Yet something stirred. For centuries she wandered the lands, silent and unknowable, her footprints leaving steam or frost depending on which foot fell first. The tribes called her names: Caldera Mother. Stormbride. The Veiled Mercy. Some built temples of obsidian and salt in her image. Others feared her as an omen, believing her gaze foretold ruin. But few ever saw her truly—until the day she stepped into the realm of Thalen, a land fractured like herself. Thalen was dying—not from war or famine, but from forgetting. Rivers refused to flow. The sun burned longer, harsher, and the moon wept blue. The land had lost the memory of connection; its people divided into elemental cults that worshiped extremes. The Pyrelords, fire-drenched and fevered, scorched the western cliffs to cleanse what they deemed impure. The Tidebinders, secretive and cold, carved underwater sanctuaries, drowning out what they called noise. Each blamed the other for imbalance. Neither saw the world collapsing beneath them both. They would never have summoned Aeralune. But the world had. Her arrival was not heralded. No comet tore through the sky. No prophet’s tongue burned with warning. She simply was, stepping from the mist one twilight, half-lit by lava’s glow, half-drenched in seafoam dew. She came to the broken altar of the Great Crossing—the last place where Pyrelord and Tidebinder had ever stood as one, centuries past. There, she placed both hands on the stone, and the ground shuddered like it remembered something ancient and vital. But she was not alone. From the shadowed highlands came a figure cloaked in smoke and ash. Vaelen of the Pyrelords—scarred, driven, cruel in the name of purpose. He came seeking conquest, but what he found shook his flame-forged certainty. And from the deep forests, where water carved its will into root and stone, emerged Kaelith of the Tidebinders—quiet, calculating, burdened by too much knowing and not enough feeling. She, too, approached with wary silence. The three stood at the broken altar. No words passed, but the tension was alive. Steam curled at Aeralune’s feet. The ground beneath cracked and healed in the same breath. Something unseen awakened, as if watching from beneath the world’s skin. And then Aeralune spoke—only three words, each weighted like mountains forged in myth: “We are fractured.” What followed was not prophecy, nor war. It was something far more dangerous. Conversation. Ash, Salt, and the Shape of Forgiveness The words hung between them, heavy as a collapsing star: We are fractured. Kaelith flinched, as though those three syllables echoed through her bones. Vaelen narrowed his eyes, heat radiating off his skin in shimmering waves. Neither spoke immediately. In Thalen, silence was either reverence or threat—and here, it was both. Aeralune stood between them, still and vast, her breath stirring steam and fog, her presence pressing against the air like a storm that hadn’t yet chosen its direction. “The fracture is survival,” Vaelen growled first, his voice ember-dry. “We separated because unity made us weak. It diluted the fire. I will not return to smoke and shadows to appease a myth.” Kaelith’s gaze remained fixed on Aeralune. “Survival built in separation is merely death delayed. We preserve water in vessels. We do not become the vessel.” But Aeralune said nothing. Not yet. Instead, she stepped to the altar once more, placing a single fingertip—molten red—on the cold stone. Then the other hand—cool and slick with dew—joined it. The slab cracked. Not broken, but open. Beneath it, a hidden chamber revealed itself in a soft groan of earth and memory. There lay a scroll. No words inked its surface. It was woven from elements themselves—firethread and kelpvine, obsidian dust and glacier silk. The true script of Thalen: feeling, not language. Memory, not record. “You were not divided,” Aeralune said, finally. “You were broken. And you chose to remain so.” The scroll was ancient. And alive. Touching it unleashed visions—not of prophecy, but of remembrance. Kaelith and Vaelen both saw their ancestors—not heroes in battle, but companions around fire and stream, lovers beneath stars where fireflies danced between dew and smoke. They saw water cooling volcanic soil to make it fertile. They saw steam healing wounds. They saw children of both elements born under twilight skies, eyes glowing with both fury and calm. And then they saw what split them: fear. One spark, one flood too many. One voice rising louder than the rest. Pride carved into stone, then worshipped as truth. They had not divided because of difference—but because of the terror that true unity demanded surrender. Not of strength, but of certainty. “We forgot each other,” Kaelith whispered, tears threading down her cheek like rivers etching a canyon. Vaelen’s fists were clenched. “No. We remembered only what we hated.” That was the key. The rot. Memory, twisted by resentment, had been passed down like a weapon—reframed, sanctified, retold until connection itself was branded heresy. Unity wasn’t destroyed in one blow. It had been eroded, like cliffs, by unspoken grief. “So then,” Aeralune said, her voice now the sound of lava meeting rain, “will you choose to remember rightly?” Kaelith stepped forward. She extended her hand, palm up, toward Vaelen. It trembled—not from fear, but from the weight of history. A hand soaked in generations of drowned silence, offering the most dangerous gift one could give: vulnerability. Vaelen looked at it. At her. At the woman with seafoam in her veins and guilt in her gaze. Then down at his own hands—scarred, calloused, the kind that knew fire as both forge and furnace. Slowly, he uncurled them. “We cannot go back,” he said. “But perhaps we can go forward broken—together.” He placed his hand in hers. And the world exhaled. From the fractured altar, a bloom of light erupted—not harsh or divine, but warm and wild. It rippled across Thalen, breathing into stone, river, flame, and tree. Where the rivers had choked dry, they now shimmered. The cliffs that had blackened with heat softened into fertile crimson soil. Storms that once only destroyed now danced across the sky, seeding both chaos and hope. Aeralune did not smile. But her eyes flickered with something ancient and rare. “The world does not need peace,” she said. “It needs intimacy. Tension embraced, not erased. Union, not fusion.” She turned from them. Her purpose fulfilled, perhaps. Or just beginning. Her body began to dissolve—not as death, but as gift. Each flake of her—cracked ember, salted moss, wind-woven dew—became the breath of Thalen itself. The volcanoes still rumbled. The oceans still crashed. But between them now was a new song—a rhythm of opposition choosing collaboration over conquest. Years later, storytellers would speak of the Split Goddess, the One Who Held Contradiction. And children of fire and tide would grow up believing not in sides, but in spectrum. Not in conquest, but in communion. And somewhere, far beneath root and stone, that woven scroll still pulsed—reminding the world that even the most broken things can remember how to be whole, if they dare to speak across the fracture.     Bring the Myth to Life in Your Space If *Born of Flame, Breathed by Ocean* stirred something in you—a memory of unity, a yearning for balance, or a fascination with elemental beauty—you can carry that feeling beyond the page. We've transformed this powerful image into vivid, high-quality art products designed to bring story and atmosphere into your everyday life. Metal Print: Sleek and radiant, this option captures the elemental tension in razor-sharp detail with a modern, floating effect perfect for bold interiors. Acrylic Print: A stunning depth effect that enhances the contrast between fire and water, perfect for creating a gallery-quality focal point in your home or office. Throw Pillow: Add an evocative touch to your living space with this cozy yet dramatic textile—where myth meets comfort. Tote Bag: Carry the story with you wherever you go. Durable, vibrant, and symbolic—a perfect blend of art and utility. Each product is crafted to preserve the soul of the story and the intensity of the image. Let this elemental fusion accompany you in your world, reminding you daily: true power lies in the connection between opposites.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Terror on the Tile Wall

Panic in Ply Town Rolland Q. Plyworth III had lived a cushy, well-rolled life up until this exact moment. He was proud of his smooth finish, triple-ply pedigree, and his strategic placement on the prime real estate that was the polished chrome dispenser in Stall Two. He'd heard horror stories from the bidet crowd—rumors about rough wipes, careless tears, and the dreaded "backdoor blizzard" incident of 2017. But Rolland? He thought he was above it all. Then he walked in. At first, Rolland didn't panic. Sure, the human was humming a weird polka tune, pants already around his ankles like a flag of defeat. But Rolland had seen plenty of cheeks come and go. This was standard issue. Nothing to worry about. Until he saw the hand. It wasn’t just dirty. It was apocalyptic. A crime scene in five fingers. Caked in the brown shame of a thousand tacos past their prime. The kind of mess you don’t wipe—you just burn it down and start a new life in Idaho. “Oh sweet Charmin’s ghost,” Rolland muttered as his arms sprung from his soft sides, reaching out to protest. “Not me! I’m embossed! I have a quilted legacy!” The hand got closer. It reached for the tail end of Rolland’s perfectly perforated sheet. His heart—if he had one—would’ve exploded like a hot burrito in a microwave. “Stop! Use the paper towels! Use your sleeve! Use... your dignity!” Rolland shrieked, trying to unspool himself off the holder like a hostage escaping bondage. Too late. A single square was torn free, gripped by the filth-riddled claws of the man who had clearly just committed war crimes in porcelain. And then—horror—Rolland was made to hold it. His tiny paper hand gripping the dirty square like a traitor handing over state secrets. His fibers trembled. His embossing began to curl with trauma. “You monster,” he whispered, his googly eyes widening. “I’m not even flushable.” But the man didn’t hear. The man never heard. They never do. They just wipe and leave. No thank you. No apology. No therapy voucher. As the hand drew the square toward the unspeakable, Rolland knew this was only the beginning of his nightmare. And if he didn’t do something drastic... he’d be next. The Great Escape and the Porcelain Underground It’s said that in moments of mortal terror, your life flashes before your eyes. For Rolland Q. Plyworth III, it was a slideshow of packaging. The proud day he left the factory. The first time he was stocked on the top shelf—front-facing, labels aligned. The time a small dog tried to chew on his outer layer and got scared off by his screaming face. Simpler times. But now? Now he was about to be complicit in the kind of fecal felony that gets you blacklisted from every guest bathroom from here to Biscayne Bay. His mind raced. He was a roll of few options. But if he could just... twist his core... leverage the spring of the holder... maybe—maybe—he could dismount. “FOR PLYDOM!” he howled, spinning like a majestic soft grenade and flinging himself off the metal spindle with all the grace of a suicidal croissant. He hit the tiled wall, bounced off the sink, and landed with a panicked flop behind the toilet brush caddy. The human stared at the empty holder. “What the—” he grunted, cheeks clenched, reaching under the sink in desperation. “WHERE’S THE BACKUP ROLL?!” Rolland peeked from behind the plunger, gasping for breath he didn’t need. “There is... no backup... you crusty-handed barbarian.” Suddenly, from the shadows of the baseboard heating vent, came a whisper. “Pssst. New guy. You alright?” Rolland turned to see a square of paper towel, folded into a vaguely humanoid shape with duct tape shoes. One corner was burnt. One side had coffee stains that looked... deliberate. “Who... who are you?” Rolland asked, still trembling. “Name’s Bev. Bev Napkin. We’ve been watching you from the vents. You’ve got guts, roll-boy. Most of your kind go limp and get flushed. But you? You’ve got fiber.” Rolland blinked. “Is this the afterlife? Is this where all the partially used napkins go?” Bev laughed, a harsh papery rasp. “Nah, sweetheart. This is the Underground. And you just joined the resistance.” Bev led him down through a vent tunnel, past tissues with eye patches, floss with battle scars, even a bar of soap that refused to speak of what it had seen in Gym Locker 9. They emerged into a hollow behind the baseboards—a sanctuary of the discarded and the defiant. A haven for the hygienically traumatized. “We call it ‘Plymoria’,” Bev explained, spreading her crumpled hands. “And we fight for justice. For dignity. For one-ply, two-ply, and moist towelette alike.” Rolland stared in awe. “But... what can I do?” Bev grinned. “You know the layout. You’ve seen the enemy. You’ve touched their hands.” He shuddered. “More like... their sins.” “Then you’re perfect for our mission,” she said. “Operation: Wipe Back.” From that day forward, Rolland trained with the Paper Platoon. He learned to roll silently across linoleum. He mastered distraction techniques (mostly involving fake poop and creaky cabinet doors). He even bonded with a grizzled loofah named Carl, who’d done two tours in the bachelor dorm showers. The next time that filthy human entered the bathroom, things were different. As he reached again—confident, unrepentant—he felt the snap of a tripwire made of floss. The thud of a plunger falling on his foot. The squirt of hand soap in the eye. He stumbled, slipped, and fell backward into the tub with a dramatic flail worthy of a daytime soap opera. “WE DON’T WIPE IN FEAR ANYMORE!” Rolland yelled, rappelling from the shower rod with a grappling hook made of hair ties and courage. “WHO SAID THAT?!” the man screamed, now face-down in a puddle of his own arrogance. Bev appeared beside Rolland, her crumpled napkin form backlit by the glowing nightlight shaped like a seashell. “Justice,” she said, flicking a Q-tip like a ninja star. And thus, the Porcelain Underground made their mark. They didn’t stop all the messes. But they did stop the worst of them. And they reminded every person entering that room that toilet paper was not just a tool—it was a soul. A sentient square with dreams. And boundaries. And Rolland? He wasn’t just a roll anymore. He was a revolutionary. A soft-spun soldier of sanitary salvation. Long live the resistance. Long live the Ply.     Bring the Bathroom Battle Home! If you laughed, gasped, or nervously checked your own toilet paper holder—why not commemorate the madness? "Terror on the Tile Wall" is now available as a series of gloriously absurd, conversation-starting products. Whether you're decorating your guest bathroom or just want to weird out your in-laws, we've got you covered (with more dignity than that guy's hand). Framed Print – Classy enough for your hallway, disturbing enough to keep the kids out of your bathroom. Metal Print – Because nothing says “modern chic” like a terrified toilet roll immortalized in aluminum. Acrylic Print – Vibrant, glossy, and deeply unsettling—perfect for contemporary bathrooms or as a housewarming gift for people you want to confuse. Shower Curtain – Give your morning routine a sense of urgency with Rolland’s face screaming at you while you lather. Make your walls weird, your shower scenes surreal, and your bathroom proudly unhinged with this one-of-a-kind image. Go on, wipe responsibly—shop hilariously.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Corona and Companions

The Suds Before the Storm It all began on a Tuesday, which was problematic, because Mortimer the Gnome had promised himself he’d stay sober at least until Wednesday. But Tuesday had other plans. Specifically, the kind of plans that involved a case of Corona, a slightly moldy wedge of lime, and a lab puppy named Tater Tot with the attention span of a goldfish on caffeine. Mortimer had once been a proud garden gnome. You know the type — stoic, cheerful, always pointing at invisible butterflies. But those days were long gone, buried under layers of mulch and emotional trauma from one too many weed whacker incidents. After faking his own lawn-mower-related death and fleeing suburbia, he now lived behind a condemned Taco Bell, which he called “La Casita de Chillin’.” “#CHILLIN’” read the tank top he hadn’t washed since Cinco de Mayo 2011. The hashtag had faded, but the attitude had fermented like the warm bottle he now cradled like a newborn. Next to him sat his ride-or-die, Tater Tot, the golden retriever pup with a passion for limes and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. “You bring daddy another lime, you little citrus gremlin?” Mortimer slurred with affection, sloshing beer onto his lap for the fifth time. Tater Tot dropped the wedge in his lap like a proud sommelier. Mortimer, of course, missed his mouth entirely and shoved the lime dramatically into his left nostril. It was that kind of day. Somewhere between the sixth bottle and a very confused conversation with a spider named Cheryl, Mortimer began outlining his master plan to create the world’s first Gnome-Pup Influencer Duo. “We’ll call it Gnome & Tots,” he hiccuped. “Merch. TikToks. An NFT of your butt. We’ll be legends, Tater.” Tater Tot blinked. Then burped. The room smelled of lime zest and regret. But before Mortimer could draft a business plan on the back of a stale tortilla, a shadow darkened the cracked stucco wall behind him. A tall figure loomed, carrying something that sloshed ominously. Mortimer’s bloodshot eyes squinted upward. “Well, well,” said the voice, laced with menace and mild nasal congestion. “If it isn’t the lawn gnome who stiffed me three beer runs ago.” Mortimer's mustache twitched. “Clarence?” Clarence. The garden flamingo Mortimer once left at a truck stop in Yuma. Back. Angry. With a handle of tequila and vengeance in his tiny plastic heart. The lime slipped from Mortimer’s nose and landed with a plop in his bottle. “Tater,” he whispered, rising slowly, “fetch me… the emergency sombrero.” Flamingo Vengeance and the Lime Wars of ’25 Tater Tot leapt into action, skidding across the sticky floor like a four-legged Roomba with a mission. From behind a half-eaten churro and an empty salsa jar, he retrieved Mortimer’s prized Emergency Sombrero — a battered, oversized hat covered in glitter, nacho cheese stains, and three rusted bottle openers sewn onto the brim like medals of war. “Good boy,” Mortimer wheezed, slapping the sombrero onto his head with the dramatic flair of a man who'd seen too many telenovelas and too few therapy sessions. Clarence took a step forward. His hot pink plastic legs creaked with rage. “You left me, Morty. In the Arizona sun. Melting. Watching truckers eat gas station burritos and contemplate their ex-wives.” “You said you needed space!” Mortimer protested, using the lime in his Corona like a stress ball. “I said I needed sunscreen!” Before the confrontation could devolve into sobbing and flamingo-on-gnome violence, a bottle rolled across the floor — unopened, full, cold. The room fell silent. Clarence blinked. “Is that... is that a chilled Modelo?” “It’s yours if you sit your feathery ass down and chill the hell out,” Mortimer said, voice gravelly and noble, like a drunk Clint Eastwood doing a beer commercial. Clarence hesitated. His beady eyes narrowed. Then, slowly, he tucked his tequila bottle under his wing and flopped his flamingo self onto the cushion of a crusty beanbag chair, sighing like a diva finally given her spotlight. Tater Tot, now donning a mini-sombrero of his own (don’t ask where he got it), pranced over and flopped beside him. Peace was restored. But not for long. Three raccoons burst in through the broken window like tiny furry ninjas, all wearing bandanas and reeking of fermented fruit. “Where’s the tequila, Clarence?” the leader squeaked, claws twitching. “We’re out of lime!” another raccoon wailed, noticing the dog with the last wedge. Tater growled softly, tucking his citrus treasure beneath his paw like a dragon guarding a hoard. “No one’s takin’ my pup’s lime!” Mortimer bellowed, rising unsteadily and brandishing a broken flip-flop like a katana. The room erupted. Raccoons shrieked. Clarence screamed. Tater barked like a drunk pirate. The beanbag chair exploded under the stress of flamingo weight. A wrestling match broke out involving three shot glasses, two beers, and someone yelling “AY CARAMBA!” from the alley. After 18 minutes of chaos and two calls to the local churro stand for backup, the brawl ended with everyone passed out in a tangled heap. Mortimer lay snoring on top of Clarence, Tater Tot curled up on a pile of limes like a citrus-scented loaf of bread. One raccoon was using a Corona bottle as a pillow, another wore Mortimer’s tank top as a cape. The third was inexplicably cuddling a garden gnome figurine and whispering “Forgive me, Papa.” The sun rose gently the next day over “La Casita de Chillin’.” Birds chirped. A mariachi ringtone echoed from under a pile of tacos. Mortimer stirred, blinking one crusty eye. “Tater,” he rasped. “Did we… win?” Tater burped in response, the unmistakable scent of lime zest and low-stakes victory wafting through the room. Clarence opened one eye. “I think I peed in your beer.” Mortimer considered this for a long moment, then shrugged. “Adds character.” And thus, the legend of the Great Lime Wars of ‘25 was born. They never did become influencers. But they did get banned from three liquor stores and somehow ended up on a T-shirt sold exclusively at gas stations in New Mexico. As for the sombrero? It now sits atop a barbed-wire fence, flapping nobly in the breeze, watching over drunkards, dogs, and vengeance-seeking flamingos everywhere. #Chillin', forevermore.     If the lime-loving chaos of "Corona and Companions" made you snort-laugh, cry tequila tears, or just deeply relate to a gnome in a crusty tank top, you can snag a piece of this legendary mess for yourself. Whether you're decking out your bar with a metal print, puzzling through your poor life choices with a hilarious jigsaw puzzle, or just need a sticker to slap on your cooler that says “I, too, once fought off lime-thirsty raccoons,” we’ve got you covered. Send gnome-themed greetings to your weirdest friend with a greeting card, or class up your bathroom (questionably) with a rustic wood print. Mortimer would be proud. Tater Tot would wag. And Clarence? He'd demand royalties.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Hope in Hooded Silence

Hooded, Not Humbled The fairy in question had a name, of course. But like all good woodland mysteries, she preferred it whispered. Call her "Hope" and she'll raise one sculpted brow; call her “The Hooded Sass Bringer” and she might offer you a smirk and a daisy chain laced with sarcasm. Hope did not flit. She did not twinkle. She strutted — slowly, like every blade of grass owed her an apology. Her wings were less “delicate flutter” and more “diamond-tipped declarations of sovereignty,” and that hoodie? Not a fashion statement — a full-blown rebellion. While other fairies wore translucent petals and glittery corsets, Hope wore pink with the energy of someone who could light up the woods, but chose passive-aggressive shade instead. She wasn’t brooding. No, no. She was strategizing. Perched on a mossy rock with a flower crown thrown haphazardly behind her, she looked like she'd just broken up with the Spring Equinox via scroll-text, and Spring was still sending her emotional saplings. She’d tried being “the sweet one” once — watered everyone’s mushrooms, whispered encouragement into lily buds, and kissed frogs just in case one was an investment banker. But one too many woodland creatures had mistaken her kindness for open scheduling. And one too many pixies had touched her snacks without asking. So now she sat there, radiant in her own right, booted feet crossed like an off-duty goddess, wings aglow with mild contempt, and a bouquet of not today. The mandala glowing faintly behind her? A passive ward spell. Repels toxic exes, clingy tree spirits, and any forest creature who utters “you should smile more.” “You know what’s magical?” she muttered to a nosy squirrel who’d just popped up behind her log perch. “A woman with boundaries and decent foot support.” The squirrel blinked. She blinked back. The squirrel slowly placed a pine nut near her boot and backed away like he’d just dropped tribute at the altar of a slightly unstable but very hot goddess. He wasn’t wrong. Hope leaned back, letting the petals brush her ankles, finally allowing herself a smile. Small. Private. Enough to wrinkle her nose. Let the forest wonder. Let them gossip. She’d be here — glowing, grounded, and full of silent middle fingers in floral wrapping paper. This wasn’t exile. This was a vibe. The Cauldron, the Brat, and the Bad Ideas By the second week of her self-imposed, flower-adorned solitude, Hope had achieved something few woodland fairies ever dared attempt: functional unbotheredness. She had turned down two gnome serenades, three butterfly interpretive dances, and an invitation to a dryad’s wine-fueled interpretive drum circle (she considered that one, briefly, until she remembered the dryad played everything in 11/4 time and cried during crescendos). And then came him. He had the audacity to approach at golden hour — shirtless, of course — wearing what could only be described as a magically-forged vest of regret, mismatched leather pants, and the chaotic confidence of a half-drunk forest alchemist with mommy issues. He smelled faintly of thyme, poor impulse control, and something... carbonated? "Hooded One,” he began, bowing with enough dramatic flair to cause a squirrel fainting incident, “I bring you a potion.” She raised her eyes but not her head. “Unless it’s a potion that turns unsolicited visitors into moss, I suggest you try your luck on someone with lower standards and less visible sarcasm.” He grinned, and it was the worst kind of grin — the “I know I’m handsome and terrible” grin. Hope’s wings fluttered involuntarily. Damn them. Traitors. She crossed her legs tighter, mostly out of principle. “It’s a drink of confidence,” he explained. “Liquid gall. Forbidden nectar. Tastes like peach bellini and poor decisions.” Hope blinked. “So… brunch in a bottle?” He extended the tiny vial. “One sip and you’ll find yourself doing something impulsive. Something liberating.” She studied the vial. It glowed faintly. It sparkled. It also had a tiny handwritten label that read: Not legally responsible for what happens next. Hope took it without breaking eye contact. “If I end up flirting with a centaur poet again, I’m pouring this on your loins.” “Fair,” he said, sitting beside her like someone who’d already imagined three possible endings to this moment, all rated at least PG-13. With a deep breath and a vibe check that came back with a raised brow, she drank it. Instant warmth. Not fire — more like a slow cinnamon roll melting between the ribs. She blinked. Her hoodie felt extra pink. Her boots felt flirtier. The breeze was suddenly full of consensual suggestions. She turned toward the alchemist, her smile now dangerously recreational. “So,” she said, leaning in, “if I wanted to host an impromptu moonlit tea rave in the glade and declare myself Supreme Petal Overlord of the East Grove, would that be frowned upon or…?” “Celebrated,” he replied, already reaching into his satchel for glowing teacups and questionable dried herbs. Two hours later, the glade was pulsing with softly enchanted beats (provided by a rhythmically talented badger), and Hope was sitting on a tree stump throne wearing a crown made of dandelion fluff and sass. Her wings shimmered like disco ball prophecies, her hoodie was cropped for mobility, and her drink sparkled with both danger and elderberry. She’d created an open mic policy for frogs (limited to haikus), banned unsolicited touching of her wings, and instituted a formal decree that declared every Tuesday “Flirt With A Stranger, But Emotionally Distance At Midnight” Day. Morale had never been higher. Hope giggled into her teacup. “Honestly,” she whispered to no one in particular, “this was inevitable. I was never made for quietude. I was made for glamorously restrained chaos with wildflower highlights.” The alchemist — now shirtless again and inexplicably juggling glowing pinecones — caught her gaze and winked. She rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway. He’d probably turn out to be a beautiful disaster, but she had potions for that. And boundaries. And boots that could walk away from even the hottest trainwrecks with dignity and minimal scuffing. Tonight, the glade belonged to the Hooded One. The Brat Queen. The Soft Menace. And they would remember her. Even if they couldn’t quite explain why all their dreams now featured pink hoodies and just the right amount of danger. Wing It Like You Mean It Morning broke over the glade like a nosy bard with no boundaries and a lute he wouldn’t stop strumming. Hope awoke tangled in a circle of warm grass, a corset half-loosened, a pinecone tucked under her hip, and one lone shoe missing. Her crown was gone — possibly stolen by a jealous fox or awarded to a shrub during a midnight poetry slam. She stretched. Every joint popped with the smug satisfaction of a night well misbehaved. Her wings unfurled with the kind of sensual crackle usually reserved for old vinyl and new flirtations. She was sore in places she didn't know had nerves. Her hair smelled like wild thyme, toasted lavender, and definitely someone else's beard oil. “You’re awake,” came a voice. Of course it was him — the potion alchemist, leaning against a tree like a rom-com antagonist in denial about his arc. Hope shielded her eyes with one hand. “If you’re going to ask what last night meant, please remember I don’t believe in linear emotional timelines or post-party cuddles.” He laughed, which she both hated and kind of liked. “No, no. I just came to return your shoe.” He held it out — but it had glitter. Her glitter. From her stash. She squinted. “Did you accessorize my boot with enchanted sparkle dust?” He gave a helpless shrug. “You told me to ‘bedazzle your stompers or get out of the realm.’ So I… did.” Hope took the boot and inspected it. Not bad, actually. The man had decent placement. She might not hex him after all. “Look,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck like someone who’d definitely written at least one emotional ballad about her overnight, “I’m not asking for anything. I just wanted to say… you were magnificent.” Hope raised a brow. “I know.” He opened his mouth, then thought better of it. Smart. Growth. After he left (and she checked to make sure he hadn’t absconded with any of her hair ties), she sat quietly under a blooming willow. The party had ended. The guests had either flown off, slithered home, or passed out with dreamy smiles. And yet, she felt charged. Not just magically — existentially. See, the truth was: Hope had always been a little too much for polite fairy society. She didn’t curtsy. She didn’t suppress her opinions. She didn’t believe that softness and strength were opposites. She flirted like it was a sport and retreated like a strategist. She could drop-kick an expectation in heels and plant wildflowers in the fallout. And somewhere between rejecting emotionally unavailable treefolk and sipping cursed moon cordial, she had stopped apologizing for it. But the glade had noticed. Oh yes, the ecosystem had adapted. Pixies were suddenly re-negotiating their labor unions. Sprites were seeking self-actualization via interpretive yoga. Even the elder toadstools whispered among themselves, wondering if they should try something bold. Like teal. Hope stood, brushing leaves off her thighs and reaffixing her hoodie like armor. She would leave this meadow soon, not out of boredom, but ambition. Somewhere out there were other glades, other misfits, other girls in oversized outerwear who hadn’t yet discovered the power of a good boundary and a better comeback. She'd be their whisper. Their legend. Their mildly inappropriate bedtime story. The fairy who said, “No, I don’t want to join your coven unless you offer snacks and healthcare.” With a final smirk, she pulled the hood up, twitched her wings, and took to the sky in a lazy spiral — not fleeing, just rising. Below her, the wildflowers tilted, as if waving goodbye with flamboyant approval. The forest would remember her. The forest needed her. Because in a world of endless sparkles, sometimes the real magic… …is a brat with boundaries, boots, and a dangerously empowering pink hoodie.     ✨ Take Hope Home ✨ If Hope’s hooded sass and winged wonder stole your heart (or made you snort your tea), you can bring her bratty brilliance into your own sacred space. Whether you want to wrap yourself in her fleece-powered confidence, hang her metal gaze above your desk, or drift into dreams beneath her canvas calm — we’ve got you covered. 🌸 Tapestry – Let her attitude drape your wall in pure fairy defiance 🪞 Metal Print – High-def wings, zero apologies 🖼️ Canvas Print – For dreamy spaces that need fairy flair and silent smirks 🧶 Fleece Blanket – Get cozy with attitude (and wings) Hope in Hooded Silence isn’t just a story — it’s a statement. Claim your piece of the glade today.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Soaked in Sunshine and Mischief

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Equinox in Feathers

Once upon a cusp between seasons, deep in a forest that couldn’t quite decide if it was sweating or freezing, there lived a peacock named Percival Featherstone the Third. Yes, third — his ancestors insisted on absurd titles, but Percival preferred simpler things: sunrise strolls, arguing with leaves, and occasionally seducing unsuspecting tourists with what he called his “nuclear strut.” Now, Percival was no ordinary bird. His feathers were an ongoing existential crisis. One half burned with the molten reds and golds of autumn, while the other half shivered in glacial blues and silvers. Rumor had it a sorceress cursed him after he accidentally pooped on her enchanted picnic. (In Percival's defense, the potato salad did smell evil.) Locals from nearby villages often made bets. Was he a divine omen? A walking season-change? A very confused turkey? One misty morning, as leaves danced drunkenly through the amber light and tiny snowflakes pirouetted in the cold, Percival had had enough. He decided it was time to answer the question plaguing the countryside: Was he a fall bird or a winter bird? Thus began the Great Identity Quest. He first visited the League of Autumnal Beasts, a secret society of raccoons wearing leaf hats and possums fermenting apples in hollow logs. They celebrated him with drunken hoots and a ceremonial dance involving three pinecones and a slightly aggressive squirrel named Maude. But just when Percival thought he'd found his tribe, the wind shifted. Snow gnawed at the forest edges, and from the icy mist emerged the Frost Fellowship — a cadre of stern-faced polar rabbits and suspiciously buff snowmen. They lured Percival with promises of glittering honor and a lifetime supply of ethically-sourced mittens. So there stood Percival, mid-forest, mid-season, mid-crisis — a peacock torn between mulled cider and peppermint schnapps, between crackling leaves and sparkling icicles. What was he to do? Where did he belong? And most important of all, could he maybe somehow finesse the situation to get both cider and schnapps? Standing precisely on the line where autumn kissed winter, Percival Featherstone III did something no peacock, possum, or snowman had ever attempted before: he called an emergency summit. He sent leaf-telegrams and snowflake-messages to both the League of Autumnal Beasts and the Frost Fellowship, inviting them to meet at the Great Maple-Gone-Moody-Tree — the most indecisive tree in the entire forest, known for dropping leaves in July and growing fresh ones mid-December out of sheer contrariness. At dawn, the forest pulsed with tension. On one side, the Autumnal Beasts rustled in crunchy leaf armor and sipped dubious pumpkin-flavored potions. On the other, the Frost Fellowship polished their ice shields and occasionally flexed their mittens menacingly. In the center, Percival, resplendent in shimmering contradictions, cleared his throat (it sounded oddly like a kazoo) and declared: "I am not one thing, nor the other. I am both. I am every blasted confusing, glorious, contradictory thing this mad forest breathes into life. And if you think I'm picking a side, you can all go find a frozen pinecone and sit on it." There was stunned silence. Even Maude the aggressive squirrel dropped her pinecone-knife. Then something miraculous happened. A tiny, elderly vole stepped forward from the crowd, clutching a thimble of spiced mead. With a trembling paw, she squeaked, "My grandson's got spots and stripes. We still love him. Maybe... maybe it's time we stop making folks choose." Slowly, heads nodded. A possum accidentally nodded so hard he tumbled into a pile of fermented apples and started singing sea shanties, but even that somehow felt appropriate. Within minutes, an impromptu festival erupted. Autumn beasts and winter beasts danced in the slush together, slipping, sliding, and laughing until their fur was matted and their spirits lighter than air. Tables of feasts emerged as if summoned by magic (or very efficient raccoons). There were roasted chestnuts and frozen blueberry pies, caramel-dipped icicles and hot cider with frosty rims. Percival gorged himself shamefully, feathers sparkling with sticky sugar and ice crystals alike. Later, as the sun sank into a molten orange sea and the first true winter stars winked above the skeletal branches, Percival found himself alone at the edge of a half-frozen pond. His reflection shimmered: fire on one side, frost on the other, a creature stitched together from opposing worlds. And for the first time in his life, he loved every impossible, riotous inch of himself. He realized then that seasons weren’t enemies — they were a dance, each needing the other to exist. Without autumn’s death, winter’s slumber was meaningless. Without winter’s hush, spring’s birth would be hollow. Every contradiction was part of the same grand, ridiculous, beautiful song. As Percival raised his wings high to the heavens, a final gust of wind lifted swirling leaves and tiny crystals into a slow, breathtaking spiral around him. The crowd gasped, thinking it magic. But Percival just smiled his secret, mischievous smile. It wasn’t magic. It was simply belonging. And somewhere, deep in the forest’s wise old heart, even the trees sighed in relief. They wouldn’t have to pick a side either. —The End (and the Beginning)     Epilogue: The Festival of the In-Between Years later, the tale of Percival Featherstone III became a legend whispered between rustling leaves and drifting snowflakes. Every year, on the exact day when the forest couldn’t make up its mind — when frost kissed the last golden leaves — creatures from every corner of the wood gathered for the Festival of the In-Between. There were no rules. You could wear a fur coat and swim trunks. You could roast chestnuts while building snowmen. You could sip frozen cider with a scarf knitted from autumn leaves. There was laughter and bad singing and the occasional regrettable tattoo inked with berry juice. Nobody judged. Everyone belonged. And always, above it all, floated the memory of a slightly vain, deeply stubborn peacock who dared to say, "I am everything you think I can't be." They built a little statue of him by the Great Maple-Gone-Moody-Tree. Naturally, the statue was half-carved from fiery amber and half-chiseled from pure winter quartz. It tilted slightly, as if about to strut right off its pedestal — an eternal wink to those smart enough to embrace life’s messy, magical contradictions. Visitors who came to the festival were encouraged to leave something at the base of the statue — a leaf, a snowflake, a silly poem, a ridiculous hat — anything that said, "I see you. I celebrate you." And if you listened very carefully, after too much cider and perhaps just enough schnapps, you might swear you heard a faint kazoo-like chuckle ripple through the swirling mist. Some said it was just the wind. Others knew better. Long live the In-Betweens.     Bring the spirit of the In-Between home. If Percival’s story stirred a smile or sparked a little fire in your heart, you can celebrate his legacy with a piece of art that captures the magic. Choose a vibrant Metal Print that gleams like winter frost, a rich Canvas Print that warms a room like autumn sun, a challenging Puzzle to piece together every swirling season, a Tote Bag for carrying your contradictions in style, or a cozy Throw Pillow to rest your head between dreams of fire and frost. Whatever you choose, may it remind you — every glorious, ridiculous day — that you don’t have to fit in a single box. Life is richer at the crossroads. Long live the In-Betweens.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Echoes of Autumn and Dawn

She stood where the worlds divided, her bare feet pressed against the cracked threshold of an invisible seam, stitched together by the unseen hands of gods who had long since forgotten they made her. On her left, the light — gold, radiant, alive — streamed through towering trees whose leaves whispered the secrets of endless beginnings. On her right, the dark — indigo, reverent, tender — cradled crimson boughs heavy with sorrowful wisdom, the kind only endings ever truly know. In her hands she cradled a bouquet, roses too real for this place: thorns bloodied by choices unmade, petals bruised by hopes too fragile to survive the crossing. Her dress, woven from light and shadow, flickered with each heartbeat — a heartbeat she was no longer sure belonged to her, or to the aching universe that breathed through her skin. Two faces rose behind her — great earthen visages, carved by the slow, patient chisel of time itself. One wept golden sap from hollow eyes, the other bled crimson mist. They were her ancestors, her descendants, her twin reflections stretched across lifetimes she could only half-remember. She was their echo; they were her memory. And in the silence between their thunderous existences, she was given a choice. To remain. To bridge. To become the song of seasons, the living testament to the impossible reconciliation of contradictions: morning and mourning, birth and decay, fire and water, reaching for each other across the chasm of entropy. As she stepped forward, roots tangled around her ankles, pleading and promising. The trees, ancient and unknowable, whispered in a tongue older than the soil beneath her toes: "Choose wisely, for your choice will echo beyond the stars you can see and the ones that have already died for you." Her heart faltered. Not from fear — no, she had shed fear long ago — but from the terrible beauty of knowing. Of seeing too much. Of feeling the pull of both creation and destruction within her marrow. She could not take the first step without betraying one half of herself. She could not stand still without betraying them both. Overhead, the sky split — not with anger, but with possibility. Through the crack poured stardust older than grief, carrying with it a voice, not heard but understood: "You are the daughter of collapse and the mother of rebirth. Choose, and choose wholly." She closed her eyes. She opened them. She lifted one foot, trembling but resolute, toward the twilight beyond the seam... She stepped — not onto ground, but into memory. The air thickened, trembling around her like the skin of a drum, humming with the echoes of every soul who had ever chosen, or failed to choose, before her. Each heartbeat became a drumbeat. Each breath a symphony. She was no longer merely standing between light and shadow; she was becoming the space where they met, where they clashed and caressed and collapsed into something utterly new. Through her feet, she felt the lifelines of planets pulsing, dying, birthing. Through her hands, she cradled stars not yet born and empires already turned to dust. Her body became a bridge, and the terrible, magnificent weight of existence pressed into her bones, branding her with its eternal demand: Be more than the sum of your contradictions. Be the thread that sews the torn fabric of becoming. The two faces loomed closer now, no longer silent sentinels but living memories. They whispered truths she had tried to forget: how every beginning is a wound, how every ending is a kiss. How love and loss are not opposites but mirror images gazing endlessly at each other across time’s vast hallways. And above it all, the breach in the sky widened, pouring silver rain onto her upturned face. Each droplet whispered names — names she had worn in other lifetimes, names she had forgotten, names she had yet to earn. Some were cruel. Some were beautiful. All of them were hers. In that moment, she saw herself: not as a single woman bound by flesh, but as an endless, spiraling constellation of choices, regrets, desires, and dreams. She was not standing between autumn and dawn — she was the autumn and the dawn, the hand that closed the door and the hand that opened the window. She realized that the choice was not about which side to favor, which face to love, which future to birth. The choice was simply this: Would she remain divided forever — or would she embrace the unbearable wholeness of who she truly was? The roots around her ankles loosened, not in surrender, but in offering. The trees bent low, their branches brushing her hair in reverent benediction. The faces closed their hollow eyes and waited, neither demanding nor pleading. The universe itself seemed to hold its breath. With a smile — the kind born only after knowing true sorrow — she knelt. She pressed her palm into the cracked seam of the world, feeling its roughness, its scars. She whispered not words, but understanding, into its depths. She gave it everything: her hopes, her failures, her fury, her forgiveness. She gave it the music of her unspoken poems and the weight of her silent screams. And the world answered. From the fissure bloomed a tree unlike either of its ancestors. It bore leaves that shimmered like prisms, shifting from gold to blue to red to colors no human tongue had ever named. Its bark was etched with the fingerprints of galaxies. Its roots drank from the dreams of dead stars. Its branches reached not just across seasons, but across the very curvature of time itself. She rose. She was no longer a bridge, nor a seamstress, nor a daughter of collapse. She was the seed and the soil, the ache and the awakening. She carried within her the silence of endings and the laughter of beginnings, braided together so tightly they could never again be torn apart. The faces crumbled into dust, their task complete. The sky stitched itself closed, leaving only a faint scar — a reminder that even healed wounds remember being broken. The trees sang, not with leaves or wind, but with the silent thunder of new possibility. And as she stepped into the vastness, the bouquet in her hand unraveled into starlight, scattering across the firmament to seed new worlds — each one bearing the faint, eternal whisper of her name. She was autumn. She was dawn. She was the echo, the song, the silence between stars. She was the choice made whole.     Epilogue: The Silent Orchard Centuries later, when the world had forgotten her name but not her story, travelers would stumble upon the place where the golden and crimson woods once met. They would speak in hushed voices of a single tree that stood apart — a tree whose branches shimmered like broken rainbows and whose roots hummed underfoot with a pulse older than any living memory. No birds dared build nests in its boughs. No storms could twist its trunk. It belonged to neither season nor soil. It simply was — as she had been, as she still was, somewhere beyond the trembling curtain of reality. Some said if you pressed your ear to its bark on a cold autumn morning, you could hear the laughter of dawn mixing with the sighs of falling leaves. Others claimed that if you wept beneath its canopy, your tears would vanish, lifted into the sky to become new stars — tiny testaments to choices made and paths walked bravely, even when unseen by any eyes but your own. And though her name was lost to time, her echo remained, not carved in stone nor sung in legend, but sewn into the fabric of being itself. Every sunrise. Every withering leaf. Every trembling hand reaching for hope against despair — they bore the invisible fingerprint of a woman who chose wholeness over comfort, unity over certainty. It is said — by those who still listen carefully enough — that when you stand very still between the hush of ending and the hush of beginning, you might hear her whisper: "You are more than you fear. You are all that you remember, and all that you dream. Step forward, beloved echo. The universe is listening."     Bring the Echo Home Carry a piece of this cosmic journey into your own sacred spaces. Let Echoes of Autumn and Dawn remind you — every day — that beginnings and endings live intertwined within you. Explore our curated collection featuring this stunning artwork: Woven Tapestry — wrap your world in the shimmering embrace of gold and twilight. Metal Print — breathe life into your walls with this luminous, durable masterpiece. Fleece Blanket — wrap yourself in the comfort of stars and ancient forests. Beach Towel — take a little magic with you wherever your soul wanders. Greeting Card — send a whisper of light and shadow to someone who understands. Every piece is a portal — a reminder that you, too, are an echo worth remembering.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Petal's Little Protector

It was a night so muggy you could drink the air. Somewhere between midnight and whatever hour is reserved for bad decisions, the garden vibrated with the kind of life that most respectable creatures avoided. Crickets shouted unsolicited opinions. Moths made questionable life choices involving open flames. A possum waddled by with the kind of unbothered confidence that only comes from making peace with one’s own trashy destiny. And there, amid the chaos, reigning supreme on a lotus bud not even fully awake yet, was Pip. Pip: a creature of approximately eight ounces, three ounces of which were ego. A micro-dragon, a salamander dream gone technicolor — turquoise and gold and candy-apple red, shimmering like a toddler’s glitter accident. His frills fluttered dramatically in the nonexistent breeze. His tail, striped and twitchy, thumped the bud with the rhythmic impatience of a CEO stuck on hold. “Listen up, you soggy peasants,” Pip squeaked to absolutely no one. His voice carried the world-weary scorn of someone who had once been forced to attend a meeting that could’ve been an email. “This bloom is sacred. Saaaacred. I will destroy anyone who so much as breathes on her wrong.” He turned his head, slowly, menacingly, to glare at a confused beetle trundling by. The beetle paused, sensing the general vibe, and awkwardly reverse-walked into the nearest thicket. The lotus bud said nothing. If it had a face, it would have been wearing the strained smile of someone stuck next to a very drunk relative at a wedding reception. Pip didn’t care. He pressed his scaly cheek against her soft petals and sighed with the kind of tragic romance usually reserved for operatic heroines on their fourth glass of wine. “You’re perfect,” he whispered fiercely. “And this world is full of sweaty-fingered monsters who want to touch you. I won’t let them. Not even a little. Not even ironically.” Overhead, a disillusioned owl, bearing witness to this performance for the third night in a row, considered seeking therapy. Still, Pip remained vigilant. He flared his head fins every time a wayward breeze threatened to flutter the petals. He growled (adorably) at a toad who looked at the lotus with mild interest. When a moth had the audacity to land within a six-inch radius, Pip executed a flying tackle so dramatic it ended with him sprawled belly-up in the damp grass, legs kicking indignantly at the stars. He was back on the bud within seconds, polishing the flower with the inside of his elbow and muttering, “No one saw that. No one saw that.” Truth was, Pip had no official title. No magic spells. No real strength. But what he lacked in credentials, he made up for with boundless, unrelenting devotion. The kind that could only be born from believing, deep down, that even the most ridiculous, most mismatched protectors were still the right ones for the things they loved. And the lotus — she stayed silent and serene, trusting him completely, maybe even loving him back in her own slow, green way. Because sometimes, the universe didn’t choose champions based on size or power or grandeur. Sometimes, it chose the loudest, smallest brat with the biggest heart. The night dragged onward, a wet symphony of croaks, chirps, and far-off shrieks that no respectable citizen should ever investigate. Pip stayed rooted on the lotus, a hyper-vigilant blot of color in an otherwise sleepy world. His tiny heart thudded like a war drum against his ribs. His frills sagged slightly, damp with dew and exhaustion. And yet — he remained. Because evil never sleeps. And neither, apparently, did Pip. Just when he dared to blink, just when he permitted himself a victorious thought (“No one would dare challenge me now”), it happened — the catastrophe he’d been dreading. From the gloom emerged a hulking threat: a bullfrog. Fat. Warty. Oozing malevolence, or at least gas. It fixed its milky gaze on the lotus with the lazy hunger of a man contemplating a third slice of pie. Pip’s pupils narrowed to slits. This was it. The Boss Battle. He drew himself up to his full, mighty three inches of height. He arched his back, flared every fin he possessed (and one he may have invented out of sheer spite), and let loose the fiercest battle cry his little lungs could manage: “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” The frog blinked slowly, unimpressed. Pip threw himself bodily off the bud, all claws and noise, landing squarely between the lotus and the amphibious threat. He puffed, he hissed, he slapped the ground with his tail in a display so wildly unnecessary that the frog actually reconsidered its life choices. After a long, tense moment, the frog croaked once — a low, begrudging sound — and turned away. Pip remained frozen until the sounds of its retreat faded into the misty dark. Then, and only then, did Pip allow himself to collapse theatrically against the stem of the flower, panting like a marathoner who hadn’t trained. “You’re welcome, world,” he muttered, slapping one tiny hand dramatically against his forehead. The lotus said nothing, of course. Flowers are not known for effusive gratitude. But Pip could feel her appreciation, warm and slow and deep, wrapping around him like a hug no one else could see. He dragged himself back up onto the bud with great ceremony. He needed the world to know he was battered, bruised, and therefore desperately heroic. Once settled, he wrapped his limbs tight around the petals and buried his snout against her soft surface. In the distance, the owl — now lying prone on a branch from sheer secondhand exhaustion — offered a slow, sarcastic clap with one wing against the other. And the garden? It kept on living its messy, ridiculous life. Crickets hollered. Beetles clattered. Somewhere, something squelched ominously. But none of it could touch the lotus. Not while Pip stood (well, laid) guard. Because no matter how small, no matter how silly, the bond between protector and protected was unbreakable. No monster, no weather, no cruel accident of fate could tear apart what Pip had vowed to defend — not with teeth, or tail, or most importantly, obnoxious determination. Under the dappled moonlight, the Petal’s Little Protector snored softly, frills twitching in some dream of endless battles won and blooms forever safe. And the lotus — safe, whole, and untouched — cradled him gently until morning.     Epilogue: The Legend of Pip They say if you wander far enough into the garden — past the muttering lilies, beyond the judgmental daisies, through the part where even the weeds seem suspicious — you might just find a lotus blooming alone under the open sky. If you’re lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you feel about being yelled at by something the size of your thumb), you’ll catch a glimpse of him: a shimmer of impossible colors, a flash of fin and frill, a guardian curled protectively around a single sacred flower. Approach too quickly, and he’ll scold you with the full, furious force of someone who once fought off a frog three times his size. Approach too carefully, and he might just approve of you. Maybe. If you’re very lucky, and your vibe is sufficiently non-threatening, Pip might even allow you to sit nearby — under the strict understanding that you are absolutely, categorically, not to touch the flower. Or him. Or breathe too loudly. Or exist too flamboyantly in his general direction. And if you sit there long enough, if you let the night fall around you and the stars stitch themselves into the black velvet above, you might start to feel it too — that fierce, funny, aching kind of love that demands nothing but promises everything. That stubborn, ridiculous, beautiful kind of protection only the bravest little hearts know how to give. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll realize that the world is still full of tiny, glittering miracles — guarding the best parts of it with tooth, tail, and absolute, glorious defiance.     Take Pip Home (Carefully!) If your heart’s been thoroughly stolen by Pip (don’t worry, he does that a lot), you can invite a little bit of his fiercely protective magic into your own world. Choose your favorite way to keep the legend alive: Wrap yourself in wonder with a stunning tapestry featuring Pip in all his colorful, chaotic glory. Bring his fierce little spirit into your space with a sleek, vibrant metal print. Tote his sass and loyalty everywhere you go with a whimsical, sturdy tote bag. Start your mornings with a grumpy guardian by your side — Pip looks particularly judgmental on a coffee mug (in the best way). Whichever you choose, just remember Pip’s golden rule: Look, but don’t touch the flower. Ever.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Soulbound to the Stonekeep

The Oath Beyond the Stars The stars bled the night into the Stonekeep’s battered towers, their wounded glow spilling across crumbling battlements like ghostly rivers. At the threshold of the great steps, where moss devoured stone and the air crackled with forgotten spells, Kaelen waited — a sentinel forged from both flesh and the breath of dead worlds. His fur shimmered with unnatural hues — obsidian, cobalt, and veins of burning gold that seemed to pulse with a heartbeat not entirely his own. Runes etched into his hide by a dying celestial god throbbed softly beneath his pelt, whispering oaths older than the language of men. His luminous eyes, fractured like twin nebulas, stared down the endless path winding into the mist beyond the gates, where mortal threats once dared approach the Keep. But no mortal dared the Stonekeep now. Not after the Sundering. The Keep itself, a fortress of monolithic stone veined with silver and sorrow, leaned against the bruised sky as though exhausted by its own terrible history. Each carved arch and battered spire was a gravestone to the kings, scholars, and dreamers swallowed by ambition. A thousand worlds had brushed against the Keep’s walls when the Veil had thinned — some offering wonder, others ruin — until finally, the skies had cracked open, and the gods themselves had turned away their faces. It was in that abandonment that Kaelen was bound. He was no common beast; he was the anchor, the last thread stitching the dying weave of the Keep to the mortal plane. Where once a hundred Guardians stood — lions of flame, serpents of crystal, titans of bone — now only Kaelen remained. The others had broken. Fallen. Or worse, been unmade by the silence beyond the Veil. Tonight, the stars sang again. And it was not a song of hope. In the cold black spaces between constellations, something moved — a hunger stitched into existence by forgotten hands. It called to the ruins. It called to Kaelen. But Kaelen’s heart — battered, cosmic, invincible — answered not with submission, but with defiance. He stood, muscles rippling under his ancient armor, claws digging into sacred stone, and loosed a sound that tore across the heavens like the shattering of an old and terrible chain. His howl was not for summoning. It was a warning. The Hunger Beneath Names The mists recoiled at Kaelen’s cry, folding back to reveal a path long abandoned to darkness. Shadows spilled across the broken ground, writhing like worms in a corpse. Yet no mortal army emerged, no clang of steel or warhorn broke the hush. Only a slow, deliberate pressure bled through the air, like a hand unseen, reaching across eternity to test the last lock upon a forbidden gate. Kaelen bristled. Beneath his fur, the runes ignited, flooding his limbs with borrowed power — starlight condensed into violence. It was a fragile gift. The magic that stitched his spirit to the Keep was ancient, and the stone drank from him even as it sheltered him. Every breath was a negotiation; every heartbeat a gamble. Out beyond the crumbled roads, past the skeletons of forgotten villages, the Hollow Ones stirred. Kaelen felt them before he saw them — life forms denatured by cosmic entropy, stripped of memory, stripped of name. They dragged themselves toward the Keep not in search of conquest, but oblivion. It was not hatred that moved them; it was the gravitational hunger of annihilation itself, wearing their corpses like cloaks. They were his former kindred — kings, mages, dreamers — now puppeted by something deeper than decay. Kaelen growled low, the sound a serrated promise. He would not let the Stonekeep fall. He would not allow the rot to take what little remained of honor, of memory, of truth. The first of them lurched into view — a knight whose armor hung in rusted tatters, eyes hollow save for the pinpoint glow of forgotten stars trapped in their sockets. Around its broken crown hovered splinters of some shattered relic, orbiting like moons around a dead world. The creature raised a blade that wept black ichor onto the stones — a blade that had once pledged itself to the defense of the Keep, before time turned loyalty into a joke whispered by carrion. Kaelen did not flinch. He lunged, a blur of cosmic fire and iron will, crashing into the Hollow One with a force that cracked the earth beneath their clash. His jaws found the specter’s throat — not flesh, but the trembling memory of flesh — and tore it apart with a snarl born of grief and fury intertwined. More came, drawn by the scent of defiance. Hollowed champions, shambling scholars, even the spectral echoes of children who had once played at the edge of the battlements. The air was thick with sorrow — a sorrow that fed the thing beyond the stars, the true enemy. And from within the dark firmament above, something vast and patient opened an unseen eye. Kaelen felt it gaze upon him — not with anger, but curiosity, the way a flood studies a stone before deciding whether to wash it away or grind it into dust. It knew his name. It had always known his name. The Last Stitch of the World Kaelen stood at the summit of the battered steps, his breath steaming in the cold air, the bloodless corpses of Hollow Ones crumbling to dust around him. But he knew these victories were illusions, as transient as mist on a blade. Every foe he felled left a scar in the weave of existence itself. Every roar he loosed shook loose another thread from the fragile tapestry the Stonekeep anchored to the mortal realm. The true enemy was not these empty husks. It was the thing beyond the veil — the Nameless Hunger — a force older than gods, older than stars, birthed in the blind space between creation’s first thought and its first regret. It had no form, no mercy, no language beyond entropy. It was not evil. It simply was. And it had noticed Kaelen’s defiance. Above him, the stars began to smear, twisting into unnatural sigils that burned the eyes and shredded the soul. The air itself became viscous, heavy with the scent of iron and ancient sorrow. A rift tore open in the sky — a mouth with no lips, a wound across existence — and from it spilled tendrils of darkness laced with starlight, seeking purchase upon the world below. Kaelen lowered his head, the ancient sigils across his body blazing gold and white. His muscles ached under the pressure, his mind fraying at the edges. He could not fight the Hunger as he had the Hollow Ones. He could not tear it apart with fang and claw. But he could deny it. The runes that had been carved into his bones were not merely wards — they were keys. Keys to the Stonekeep's true purpose: not as a fortress, but as a lock. A final barricade against the unraveling of reality. And Kaelen, once a prince among his kind, had been reforged into its guardian, bound by oaths so old the gods themselves had forgotten the words. He turned away from the oncoming darkness, ascending the final steps to the great door of the Keep — a door of ironwood and starstone, etched with patterns that pulsed under his gaze. The door knew him. The Keep remembered. Behind that door lay the Heartstone — a fragment of the First Light, the raw, chaotic ember from which the multiverse had been kindled. Left unguarded, it would burn this world to ash... or worse, call the Hunger directly into its core. But sealed, nourished by sacrifice, it could deny the Nameless One entry for another age, another desperate generation. Kaelen pressed his paw against the cold surface. He felt the connection ignite instantly — a bridge of agony and grace stretching from his body into the infinite roots of the Keep. Every memory he carried, every hope, every sorrow, began to pour into the ancient stone. His victories, his failures, the warm voices of companions long dust... even the taste of the stars he'd once hunted across the night sky. All of it streamed from him, weaving into the lattice that would seal the Heartstone anew. He did not hesitate. He did not falter. Outside, the world howled in protest as tendrils of darkness lashed against the Keep’s walls, tearing away towers and battlements like parchment before a storm. But Kaelen stood unmoving, his spirit burning brighter than any star the Hunger had ever extinguished. In his final breath, Kaelen offered no plea, no curse. Only a promise: “I remember. And as long as I do, you will not pass.” The Keep shuddered once — a deep, earth-splitting groan — and then the door sealed with a blinding flash that erased every shadow. The rift in the sky closed with a scream that no mortal ear could hear. The Hollow Ones froze mid-crawl and crumbled into nothingness. The world stilled. The stars, battered but unbroken, resumed their silent vigil. And within the Stonekeep, somewhere deep beyond mortal reach, the last echo of a guardian's heartbeat fused into the walls, forever a stitch binding the mortal world against the end. Kaelen was no more. Yet he was everywhere the Keep still stood. Soulbound. Eternal.     Bring the Legend Home Kaelen's oath and the enduring spirit of the Stonekeep live on beyond the final page. Honor his memory and carry a fragment of his story into your world with exclusive artwork from Unfocussed: Adorn your walls with the Soulbound to the Stonekeep Tapestry, a sweeping canvas that captures every fierce, cosmic detail. Embrace the story’s fire with a Metal Print — a striking, durable piece worthy of any warrior's hall. Wrap yourself in cosmic protection with the Soulbound Fleece Blanket, perfect for nights under embattled stars. Even your most ordinary battles can feel epic with the Stonekeep Bath Towel, a warrior's way to greet the morning. Carry the legend. Remember the oath. Keep the darkness waiting a little longer.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Fae of the Laughing Leaves

A Cautionary Tale of Bad Decisions and Worse Ideas The Acorn Incident Deep in the Greenwood — where even the moss rolls its eyes at tourists — lived a fairy known far and wide (and sometimes regrettably) as the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. Her real name was unpronounceable to mortals, involving at least two eyebrow movements and a sneeze, so everyone just called her "Giggles." Giggles was a vision of chaotic charm: green hair like she'd lost a bet with a hedge, shimmering wings that flashed colors you couldn't describe without making hand gestures, and a smile that usually meant someone’s afternoon was about to get a lot more complicated. Her favorite hobby? Mild emotional sabotage. One glorious, overcaffeinated afternoon, Giggles decided it was time to shake up the sleepy old forest. (Mostly because the last prank — involving a love potion and an extremely amorous squirrel — had worn off, and frankly, the place was getting boring.) Her plan was simple: enchant a handful of acorns to explode in clouds of glitter every time someone said the word "leaf." Hilarious, right? Except, well... fairies aren't known for measuring things carefully. By sunset, every single living thing in the woods — trees, foxes, tourists, confused mushrooms — was sneezing sparkles and muttering dark threats about "that green-haired menace." Giggles, naturally, thought it was the best day ever. She even hosted an unofficial awards ceremony for "Most Ridiculous Sneezing Fit." (First place went to a centaur who sneezed so hard he accidentally proposed to a birch tree.) But the chaos had consequences. See, when you meddle with nature in the Greenwood, the trees notice. Especially the Elder Tree, a towering ancient being with bark thicker than most egos and the patience of a caffeinated cat. And when the Elder Tree gets cranky? Let's just say... bad things happen to mischievous fairies. Under the full moon’s watchful eye, the forest grew ominously quiet. The Elder Tree stirred, shaking centuries of dust off its gnarled branches, and in a voice like two mountains arguing over property lines, it called out: "FAE OF THE LAUGHING LEAVES... STEP FORTH." Giggles, perched upside-down in a nearby branch, casually picked a piece of glitter from her eyebrow. "Or what?" she mumbled, already plotting an exit strategy involving smoke bombs and feigned emotional vulnerability. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath. The stage was set. The mischievous Fae was about to face the consequences of her most ridiculous stunt yet... or at least, she would if she didn't wriggle out of it like usual. Bark, Bite, and Questionable Negotiations As the Elder Tree's thunderous voice echoed through the clearing, the fae of the Laughing Leaves — known colloquially (and affectionately?) as Giggles — performed the time-honored fairy tradition of acting like she hadn’t heard a damn thing. She plucked a leaf from her hair (which immediately exploded into a puff of glitter — residual side effects, no big deal) and gave the Elder Tree her best innocent stare. This was difficult, considering her left eyebrow had a mind of its own and kept twitching like it was plotting its own mischief. "Oh no," she chirped, fluttering down dramatically, "whatever could you mean, Great and... uh..." she glanced up, noting the distinct smell of ancient, grumpy authority, "extremely dignified Wooden One?" The Elder Tree, not easily impressed by theatrics (or anything, really — it once ignored a flash mob of singing satyrs), leaned forward with a groan of creaking bark. A root the size of a horse flexed dangerously near her foot. Giggles wisely hovered a few inches above ground — she'd seen what happened to the last fairy who thought she could outrun a cranky oak. (Spoiler: he lives permanently as a decorative knot now.) "YOU HAVE DISTURBED THE BALANCE," rumbled the Tree, small twigs snapping with the force of his scowl. Giggles twirled in the air, arms thrown wide like a magician revealing his latest trick — or an idiot about to get sued. "Disturbed? Nooo, no no no! I prefer to think of it as... flavor enhancement!" The Elder Tree was unimpressed. "THE FOREST IS SNEEZING, FAIRY." "Seasonal allergies!" she sang, somersaulting midair. "Very trendy this time of year." The root flexed again, closer this time. Bark crumbled. Giggles stopped mid-spin. Right. Not the time to be cute. (Well, cuter.) Seeing negotiations were going poorly, she switched tactics: flattery. "Listen, Big Bark Daddy," she purred, fluttering dangerously close to what might technically be considered the Tree’s "face" area, "you're looking exceptionally... photosynthetic tonight. Are you exfoliating? You're absolutely glowing." Somewhere in the dark canopy, an owl audibly gagged. The Elder Tree took a very slow, deliberate breath — which involved several centuries of accumulated moss shifting grumpily down his sides — and said, "A PRICE MUST BE PAID." Giggles froze. Not because she was scared (okay, maybe 12% scared), but because "A Price Must Be Paid" was ancient forest code for, "You're about to have a very bad time." Still, she was a professional. She adjusted her leafy dress (which was hanging a bit too rakishly off one shoulder, scandalizing a family of modest violets nearby) and asked, "What kind of price? Gold? Glitter? My Spotify playlist of tragic ballads from brokenhearted gnomes?" The Elder Tree was silent for a long, heavy moment. Then, in a voice so low it vibrated small rocks out of the dirt: "YOU SHALL... ATTEND... THE ANNUAL FOREST SINGLES’ DANCE... AS THE GUEST OF HONOR." Giggles gasped. Not the Singles' Dance. Anything but the Singles' Dance. It was less a "dance" and more a "desperate meat market of mythical proportions" where lonely dryads, nervous trolls, and socially awkward elves tried — and mostly failed — to flirt. Last year, the dance had ended with three fights, two accidental engagements, and a very confused badger who woke up married to a water sprite. "That's cruel and unusual punishment," she whined. "JUSTICE," the Elder Tree boomed. "Also highly ineffective! I don't even date unless it's a full moon and Mercury’s in retrograde and someone else is paying!" But the decree was final. Giggles, wings drooping in theatrical despair, accepted her fate. Invitations went out. Decorations were hung. The enchanted forest buzzed with gossip louder than a caffeinated pixie convention. On the night of the dance, she arrived wearing a gown spun from spider silk and moonbeams, trailing a suspicious cloud of pheromones she'd "accidentally" brewed a little too strong. (If she was going to suffer, everyone was.) She flirted outrageously with a bashful centaur who nearly dropped his punch bowl. She twirled scandalously close to a bashful dryad who blushed until her leaves caught fire. She winked at a cluster of shy gnomes, causing two of them to faint into the snack table. And when a seven-foot-tall troll with surprisingly delicate hands asked if she'd like to "dance real close-like," she smiled sweetly, leaned in, and whispered: "Only if you can handle glitter, big guy." Seconds later, the poor troll was covered head to toe in sparkling chaos. The dance dissolved into panicked giggling, a minor food fight, and, somehow, a spontaneous conga line led by a drunk faun. Giggles, laughing so hard she nearly fell out of the air, wiped a glittery tear from her eye. The Elder Tree watched from a distance, his face unreadable... but if one listened very carefully, one might have heard the faintest, very reluctant chuckle ripple through his ancient roots. Because in the Greenwood, you didn't really win against the Fae of the Laughing Leaves. You just survived her... and maybe, if you were lucky, you got a little fabulous doing it.     Bring a Little Mischief Home! If you fell under the spell of Giggles (don't worry, it happens to the best of us), you can snag a piece of the magic for yourself! Whether you want to drape her sass over your couch, strut into town with her on your tote, or surprise your friends with the world’s most chaotic greeting card, we’ve got you covered. Literally. Tapestry — Wrap yourself in pure mischievous vibes. Framed Print — For walls that need more sass and sparkle. Tote Bag — Carry chaos wherever you go (responsibly, probably). Greeting Card — Send some fairy mischief through the mail. Beach Towel — Soak up the sun (and scandal) with Giggles. Warning: Owning a piece of the Fae of the Laughing Leaves may cause spontaneous giggles, side-eyes, and a suspicious increase in glitter sightings. Proceed with delight.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Grin and Gnome It

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Striped Socks & Secret Smiles

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Flirtation Under the Fungi

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Weight of a Tear

The Boy Who Stood Beneath It was not rain that soaked his shoulders, nor mist that clung to his lashes — it was the sorrow of someone much larger than him. Someone whose grief came in the form of a tear so heavy, it bowed his spine and made his knees ache. He stood there, barefoot in the beige void, wearing the striped clothes of a memory long dismissed. The ground beneath him was warm, the kind of warmth that holds no comfort — only the fatigue of emotional residue. The tear, frozen in descent, hovered just above his back, never quite falling, never quite lifting. He had no name. He was not born, not in the usual sense. He was made — carved from a moment of unbearable emotion. She had cried once, long ago, when she thought no one was watching. In the quiet of a hospital room, a mother wept silently, shoulders trembling like autumn leaves clinging to one last gust of dignity. It was in that room, in that instant — when pain met silence and memory kissed flesh — that the boy formed. Not in the physical world, but in the liminal space between feeling and forgetting. He was not hers, not truly. But he bore the consequence of her sorrow like marrow. He lived inside the eye. Not metaphorically — quite literally. His world was the hollowed-out chamber behind the iris, where fragments of memories drifted like dust motes. Sometimes he would climb the lashes and look out, catching glimpses of her life — birthdays missed, promises swallowed, words unsaid. Other times, he would sit by the tear duct and listen to the muffled thunder of the heart above, echoing pain and longing through fluid and time. But now, he was outside. The tear had descended. And with it, he had too. She must have remembered. She must have touched something — a scent, a sound, a photo buried deep — and summoned the ache. That’s how it always began. Memory is a cruel puppeteer, yanking forgotten threads until the marionette of pain dances once more. He did not cry. He never did. His sorrow was structural, embedded. He bore it, as Atlas bore the sky. Bent, small, silent — the perfect witness to someone else’s collapse. The tear pulsed slightly with warmth — not wet, not cool — but heavy, like an apology that arrived too late. She was crying again. And so he waited, beneath the weight of it all, until her grief would recede or consume them both. The Architecture of Memory Time passes differently under a tear. It does not flow — it hangs, stretching into a viscous eternity. Under its weight, the boy aged without aging. He grew no taller, bore no facial hair, yet his soul withered into something ancient. He became an archivist of pain, flipping through pages of memory not his own, deciphering the cryptic calligraphy of someone else’s heartbreak. And though he had never touched her skin or smelled her perfume, he knew her better than she ever knew herself. She was his architecture, and he, her echo — a resonance carved in silence, standing beneath the droplet of all she could not bear to carry. Sometimes he imagined what it might be like to leave the drop. To step out from under its pressure and feel — for once — the unburdened air. But he couldn’t. He was not a boy in the way others were. He was a custodian, bound by the emotional laws of physics. Grief, when unspoken, becomes a structure — and someone must inhabit it. Someone must make meaning from the fragments left behind by those who never learned how to mourn properly. He remembered a moment — though it wasn’t his, not truly — when she had been eight years old. She had hidden under a staircase while her parents fought over nothing and everything. That’s where the first tear was born. That’s where he first felt a draft in his non-world, a ripple through his skinless skin. A bruise bloomed that day, not on her body, but on her spirit, and it echoed through the tear-realm like thunder without lightning. There were more moments: the boyfriend who said she was “too much,” the miscarriage that no one even knew about, the laughter she had to fake in boardrooms, the nights she stared at the ceiling wondering what her younger self would think of her now. These were the things that watered the eye from within. And every time she swallowed the pain and smiled for someone else’s comfort, the boy’s knees bent a little more. He had grown crooked not from nature, but from compassion. Every lie she told herself became another brick in the invisible architecture around them both. He didn’t resent her. He didn’t even know how. Resentment requires agency, and he had none. He was born of her pain, but he was not its judge. He was its vessel — its sanctuary. He was the child who bore the weight so she wouldn’t have to. And yet… he longed for release. For her to acknowledge him. To speak, aloud, to the tear. To say, “I see you.” And one day, it happened. She was sitting alone in a room that smelled like lavender and wood polish. An old mirror stared back at her with the impersonal honesty of glass. She leaned forward and whispered, “I miss who I used to be.” And in that moment — not with a scream, but a sigh — the tear trembled. The boy felt it shift. Not just in weight, but in meaning. It had always been sorrow. But now? Now, it was something more sacred: grief made conscious. And that changed everything. The drop finally fell. It landed not with a splash, but a soft inhale — the kind a body makes after holding its breath too long. The boy, finally free from beneath its tension, straightened for the first time. And as he did, he didn’t vanish. He didn’t crumble. He remained. Taller, steadier, not burdened, but witnessed. He was no longer just a shadow of suffering — he was the child she never knew she carried inside her grief. And now, he was real. Not flesh, not bone — but real in the way hope is real. In the way redemption arrives with no parade, just quiet understanding. Somewhere deep in her chest, she felt lighter. Not healed — healing. She would cry again. Of course she would. But next time, the tear might fall without forming a boy beneath it. Because she had seen him now. Because she had mourned out loud. And in doing so, she had unbuilt the architecture of silence.     Epilogue: The Room with No Ceiling Years passed, though clocks never ticked in his world. The boy — or what remained of him — no longer crouched beneath falling sorrow. He had become something else entirely: a presence, a pulse, a soft exhale inside the spaces she used to fill with silence. He did not follow her, but he remained near — like gravity, invisible yet always felt. She grew older, her eyes ringed not just with age, but recognition. She had learned to cry in front of mirrors and strangers. She had written things she once feared to say. She even laughed differently now — from the chest instead of the throat. And when the tears came, they came honestly. No child carried them anymore. They fell to the earth like rain, nourishing the soil where shame once bloomed. In the corner of her memory, there was a small, warm room. Inside it, a boy once stood. Now, the room had no ceiling. Just sky. Just possibility. And in the vastness above, something watched — not to judge, not to wait — but to remember. Because healing is not forgetting. It is learning how to carry the memory without letting it carry you.     Bring "The Weight of a Tear" into your space If this story stirred something in you — if the boy, the tear, or the silence between them felt familiar — you can carry that connection beyond the screen. "The Weight of a Tear" is available as a framed fine art print, an acrylic masterpiece, a stunning metal print, or even a soft wall tapestry — each one as emotionally textured as the story itself. Prefer something smaller to share or send? A beautifully printed greeting card carries the same emotion in your hands, ideal for when words fail and art speaks louder. Let this image live on — not just in your memory, but in the spaces you love. Let it remind you: healing begins the moment we allow ourselves to feel.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Trippy Gnomads

Shrooms, Shenanigans, and Soulmates Somewhere between the mossy roots of logic and the leafy canopy of “what the hell,” lived a pair of gnomes so groovy they made Woodstock look like a church bake sale. Their names were Bodhi and Lark, and they didn’t just live in the forest — they vibed with it. Every mushroom cap was a dance floor, every breeze a backing vocal, every squirrel a potential tambourine player in their daily jam session with existence. Bodhi had the beard of a wizard, the belly of a well-fed mystic, and the aura of someone who once tried to meditate inside a beehive “for the buzz.” He wore tie-dye like it was sacred armor and claimed he’d once levitated during a particularly potent batch of lavender tea (Lark said he just fell off the hammock and bounced). Lark, meanwhile, was a radiant chaos goddess in gnome form. Her hair changed color depending on the moon, the tea, or her mood. Her wardrobe was 80% flowy rainbow fabric, 15% bangles that jingled with intention, and 5% whatever she'd bedazzled while “channeling divine glitter.” She was the kind of woman who could make a peace sign look like a mic drop — and often did. The two of them weren’t just a couple — they were a cosmic alignment of snorts, incense, and undeniable soul-meld. They met decades ago at the annual Shroomstock Festival when Bodhi accidentally danced into Lark’s pop-up tea temple mid-spell. The resulting explosion of chamomile, glitter, and bass frequencies knocked both of them into a pile of enchanted moss... and love. Deep, sparkly, sometimes-kinda-illegal-in-some-realms love. Now, decades later, they’d made a cozy life in a hollowed-out toadstool mansion just off the main trail behind a portal disguised as an aggressively judgmental raccoon. They spent their days brewing questionable elixirs, hosting nude drum circles for squirrels, and writing poetry inspired by bark patterns and beetles. But something peculiar had stirred the peace of their technicolor utopia. It started subtly — mushrooms that glowed even when uninvited, birds chirping backwards, and their favorite talking fern suddenly developing a French accent. Bodhi, naturally, blamed Mercury retrograde. Lark suspected the cosmic equilibrium had hiccuped. The real cause? Neither of them knew — yet. But it was definitely about to turn their blissful forest frolic into an unexpected trip of the wildest kind. Cosmic Detours and Glorious Confusions Bodhi woke up to find his beard tied in knots around a mandolin. This wasn’t entirely unusual. What was unusual was the mandolin playing itself, softly humming something suspiciously close to “Stairway to Heaven” in gnomish minor. Lark was levitating six inches above her pillow with a satisfied grin, arms spread like she was doing trust falls with the universe. The air smelled like burnt cinnamon, ozone, and one of their questionable experiments in "emotional aromatherapy." Something was very not-normal in the glade. “Lark, babe,” Bodhi muttered, rubbing sleep from eyes that still glowed faintly from last night’s herbal inhalation, “did we finally crack open the veil between dimensions or did I lick that one too-happy mushroom again?” Lark floated down slowly, her hair swirling like galaxy tendrils. “Neither,” she said, yawning. “I think the forest’s having a midlife crisis. Either that or the earth spirit is trying to vibe-check us.” Before either could dive deeper into spiritual diagnostics, a series of thuds echoed through the glade. A line of mushrooms — fat, bioluminescent, and increasingly annoyed-looking — were marching toward their mushroom house. Not walking. Marching. One of them had a tiny protest sign that read, “WE ARE NOT CHAIRS.” Another had spray-painted itself with the words “FUNGUS ISN’T FREE.” “It’s the spores,” Lark said, eyes widening. “Remember the empathy tea blend we dumped last week because it turned our armpit hair into moss? I think it seeped into the root web. They’re woke now.” “You mean sentient?” “No. Woke. Like, unionizing and emotionally intelligent. Look — they’re forming a drum circle.” Sure enough, a ring of mushrooms had gathered, some tapping on stones with sticks, one chanting in rhythm, “We are more than footstools! We are more than footstools!” Bodhi looked around nervously. “Should we apologize?” “Absolutely not,” Lark said, already pulling out her ceremonial ukulele. “We collaborate.” And thus began the most psychedelic, passive-aggressive negotiation ceremony in woodland history. Lark led the chant. Bodhi rolled joints the size of acorns filled with apology herbs. The mushrooms demanded an annual celebration called Mycelium Appreciation Day and one day off per week from being sat on. Bodhi, overwhelmed by the sincerity of a portobello named Dennis, broke down crying and offered them full sentient citizenship under the Glade’s Common Law of Whoa Dude That’s Fair. As the moon rose and painted everything in a silvery hue, the newly formed G.A.M.E. (Gnomes And Mycelium Entente) signed their Peace Pledge on bark parchment, sealed with glitter and mushroom spore kisses. Bodhi and Lark fell back into their rainbow hammock, emotionally exhausted, and giddy from what might have been historical diplomacy or just a shared hallucination — it was hard to tell anymore. “Do you think we’re... like, actually good at this?” Bodhi asked, snuggling into her shoulder. “Diplomacy?” “No. Life. Loving. Floating with the weird and riding the vibe.” Lark looked up at the stars, one of which winked back at her in obvious approval. “I think we’re nailing it. Especially the part where we mess up just enough to keep learning.” “You’re my favorite mistake,” Bodhi said, kissing her forehead. “You’re my recurring fever dream.” And with that, they faded into sleep, surrounded by a softly snoring circle of sentient mushrooms, the forest finally at peace — for now. Because tomorrow, a sentient pinecone with a ukulele and political ambitions was scheduled to arrive. But that’s a trip for another tale.     Epilogue: Of Spores and Soulmates In the weeks that followed the Great Mushroom Awakening, the forest pulsed with an odd but joyful harmony. Animals began leaving handwritten notes (and mildly passive-aggressive Yelp reviews) on Bodhi and Lark’s door. The sentient fungi launched a twice-weekly improv troupe called “Spores of Thought.” The raccoon portal guardian began charging cover fees for dimension-hoppers, using the proceeds to fund interpretive dance classes for possums. Bodhi built a new meditation space shaped like a peace sign, only to have it claimed by the newly unionized chipmunks as a “creative grievance nest.” Lark started a ‘Gnomic Astrology’ podcast that became wildly popular with owls and rogue squirrels looking to “find their moon-beam alignment.” Life had never been more chaotic. Or more complete. And through it all, Bodhi and Lark danced. In the morning mist. Beneath moon-soaked leaves. On treetops. On tabletops. On mushrooms that now required enthusiastic consent and a signed waiver. They danced like gnomes who understood the world wasn’t meant to be perfect — just passionately weird, deliciously flawed, and infinitely alive. Love, after all, wasn’t about finishing each other’s sentences. It was about starting new ones. With laughter. With glitter. With the kind of kiss that smells faintly of rosemary and rebellion. And in the heart of the forest, where logic took long naps and joy wore bells on its toes, two trippy gnomads kept dancing. Forever just a little off-beat, and absolutely in tune.     Bring the Vibe Home If you felt the funk, the freedom, or maybe just fell a little in love with Lark and Bodhi’s kaleidoscopic chaos, you can invite their spirit into your space. Wrap yourself in the magic with a super-soft fleece blanket that practically hums peace signs. Let the art take over your walls with a forest-sized tapestry or a vibrant canvas print that turns any room into a glade of good vibes. And for those who still believe in snail mail and soul notes, there’s even a greeting card ready to deliver whimsy with a wink. Celebrate weird love. Honor magical mayhem. Support the unionized mushrooms. And most of all, stay trippy, friend.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Ale and the Argument

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Joint Custody of the Brownie

The Blooming Situation Runcle the Elf had never been what you’d call “employable.” His résumé, if it existed, would’ve included such gems as Professional Napper, Mushroom Inspector, and Occasional Lover of Sapient Ferns. So it came as little surprise to the other woodland folk when he was found one morning, high off his bark-bitten ass, lounging like a drunk god in the petals of a magnolia roughly the size of a garden jacuzzi. There he was, sun hitting his face just right, joint tucked between two long fingers like a wizard trying to look casual. His eyes were squinted not because he was suspicious, but because they were desperately trying to remember how to focus. On his lap sat the crown jewel of his day: a fudge-dense brownie laced with enough enchanted herbs to give a troll second thoughts about life choices. “Mine,” he mumbled with crumb-flecked lips, even though no one was around to dispute the ownership. Not yet, anyway. Suddenly, the bushes rustled with the confidence of someone who'd clearly ignored several signs that said, “Do Not Disturb the Elf. He's Baked.” Enter Glorma: pixie lawyer, 6 inches tall, legally terrifying, and vibrating with righteous fury. She landed on the edge of the magnolia like a winged subpoena, her heels clicking like doom across the petal. “Runcle. You greasy little leaf-humper. That brownie was supposed to be shared.” Runcle blinked slowly. “...I don’t recall agreeing to joint custody.” “You literally said, and I quote, ‘Yeah whatever Glormy, just don’t eat it all before I get back from peeing in the stream.’” Runcle took a thoughtful drag from his joint and let the smoke swirl out of his nose. “Sounds legally ambiguous to me.” Glorma, unshaken by the fog of fairy kush in the air, produced a tiny scroll with ominous red wax and several lines of text in microscopic, rage-filled calligraphy. “This contract states otherwise. Signed in glitter ink. Witnessed by three sprites and a horny badger.” Runcle squinted at it. “I was under the influence of... everything.” “And that,” Glorma said with a grin sharp enough to cut through bark, “is what we call consent with sparkles.” The standoff between elf and pixie was officially underway. The brownie sat like a holy relic between them — gooey, powerful, and soaked in enough THC to trigger a spontaneous spirit quest. Birds paused in the trees. A chipmunk stopped chewing mid-nut. The forest held its breath. And from somewhere in Runcle’s gut came a noise that sounded like a horny dragon gargling bong water. “Dibs,” Runcle whispered again. But Glorma was already reaching for her wand… Magical Mediation and the Brownie Tribunal “Runcle,” Glorma said through clenched teeth, her wings fluttering in a way that screamed ‘legal action imminent’, “you leave me no choice. I’m invoking the Snack Accord of 863 A.F. — After Fudge.” “You wouldn’t dare,” Runcle said, clutching the brownie like it was a newborn baby covered in chocolate and weed crystals. “That treaty was annulled after the Great Cookie Arbitration!” “Read the footnotes, my dear moss monkey. It was reinstated after the Muffin Uprising of '04. Page 17, subclause three: ‘Any disputed edible in a fairy/elf domestic disagreement must be tried by the Forest Tribunal of Munchies.’” Runcle groaned so hard a squirrel fell out of a nearby tree. “This is why I stopped dating pixies. All law, no foreplay.” Ten minutes later, the petals of the magnolia had been converted into a makeshift courtroom. On the left sat Glorma, legs crossed, hair in a very intentional power bun. On the right, Runcle, half-asleep, smearing brownie crumbs onto his tunic and looking like a confused old man at a Denny’s at 3AM. The tribunal consisted of: A morally flexible owl named Darren (Judge, also part-time DJ) A mushroom with eyes that blinked suspiciously often (Jury forefungus) And a raccoon bailiff named Stabbie, who was mostly there for the free snacks Darren the Owl banged a stick on a nearby acorn. “The Court of Crunchy Appeals is now in session. Glorma v. Runcle: The People v. That Greedy Bastard with the Munchies.” “Objection!” shouted Runcle, raising his joint like it was an evidence wand. “That’s prejudicial labeling!” “Sustained,” Darren replied. “We’ll call you the Allegedly Greedy Bastard.” Glorma cleared her throat. “Ladies and creatures of the court, I present Exhibit A — a glitter-contract, signed under the agreement that this sacred brownie would be shared.” “And I present Exhibit B,” Runcle said, dramatically lifting a half-eaten brownie with a corner bite taken out. “Which clearly shows there’s less than fifty percent left. At this point, we’re arguing about crumbs and moist suggestion.” “That’s still half a trip in magical dosage!” Glorma snapped. “I’ve licked goblins and seen less hallucination.” Darren nodded. “That’s legally accurate.” Suddenly, the brownie began to shimmer. The room fell into silence. A pulsing glow emitted from its gooey center as a deep voice echoed through the forest. “I am the Spirit of the Snack.” “Oh sweet fungus balls,” Runcle muttered, eyes wide. “It’s sentient. We over-infused.” “Who dares bicker over my delicious form?” the brownie boomed, levitating above Runcle’s lap with the aura of a smug baked potato on acid. “We both claim partial ownership!” Glorma said, trying to look authoritative while the brownie slowly rotated like it was being judged on The Great British Bake Off. “Then let the trial end in fair division.” With a flash of golden crumbs, the brownie split itself perfectly in two, each half levitating toward its respective claimant. The remaining forest creatures clapped politely, except for Stabbie the raccoon who tried to swipe both halves before being tasered by pixie magic. Glorma beamed, holding her half like a hard-earned diploma. “Justice is served.” Runcle took a long hit from his joint and chuckled. “Nah, babe. Dessert is served.” And as the brownie halves were consumed under the fading light of the enchanted grove, both elf and pixie drifted into a shared hallucination that involved a karaoke battle with a unicorn, a sentient cheese wheel, and a spontaneous marriage officiated by a sarcastic centaur. Some say they woke up hours later spooning in the petals, both sticky with chocolate and questionable decisions. Others say they’re still in that trip. But one thing was certain in the forest: custody may have been shared… but that brownie? Totally worth the drama.     Take the Madness Home Whether you're team Runcle or team Glorma (or just here for the sentient snacks), you can now own a piece of this beautifully bizarre tale. Canvas print? Yup. Metal print? Hell yes. Throw pillow? That brownie belongs on your couch. Tote bag? Carry your snacks like a forest legend. Grab your favorite version of Joint Custody of the Brownie and let the world know you support magical nonsense and the sacred right to edible equality.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest

Deep in the tanglewood shadows of Emberglow Forest, where sunlight filtered like liquid gold and nothing that grinned could be trusted, lived a sprite named Virla. She wasn’t your grandmother’s kind of faerie. No twinkly dust, no squeaky voice. This one had horns. And hips. And a smile that suggested she'd stolen your socks, your secrets, and your last decent bottle of elderflower wine—all before breakfast. She dressed in leaves stitched tighter than gossip in a village square and wings that shimmered like blood-orange flames every time she fluttered past a squirrel mid-nap. The other woodland creatures had learned two things: don't accept her cookies, and never, ever ask for a favor unless you wanted your eyebrows relocated or your love life suddenly redirected toward a disgruntled badger. Now, Virla had a hobby. Not the respectable kind, like moss arranging or berry fermenting. No, she dabbled in... well, chaos. Small-scale mayhem. Think glitter bombs in bird nests, enchanted whoopee cushions made from skunk fur, or swapping the moonflowers with gigglepetals—a flower so cursed with ticklishness, even the bees got the giggles. But on the particular Tuesday our story begins, Virla was bored. Dangerous, truly biblical-level bored. She hadn’t tricked a sentient being in three whole days. Her last prank, a pixie makeover spell that left a troll prince looking like a porcelain doll with pouty lips, had run its course. The forest was getting wise. Time to expand her turf. And wouldn't you know it, fate—possibly drunk and definitely underdressed—delivered her a treat. A man. A mortal man. In a crisp button-down, lost in the woods with a camera, a journal, and the swagger of someone who believed trail mix was survival food. “A biologist,” she whispered to herself, peeking from behind a fern with her wicked grin in full bloom. “Delicious.” She slinked down from her mossy perch with the elegance of a cat who knew it looked good and the confidence of someone who had once convinced a bear he was allergic to honey. Her wings pulsed gently behind her as she stepped into a shaft of dappled light, making sure the sun hit her cheekbones just right. She cleared her throat—daintily, devilishly. “Lost, are we?” she purred, letting her voice curl around the air like smoke. “Or just pretending to be helpless for attention?” The man blinked, jaw slack. “What the… are you cosplaying out here or—wait. Wait. Are those wings? And horns?” Virla’s grin widened. “And attitude. Don’t forget the attitude, darling.” He fumbled for his camera. “This is incredible. A hallucination, probably. I haven’t eaten since noon. Did that granola bar have mushrooms in it?” “Darling, if I were a hallucination, I’d come with fewer clothes and worse decisions.” She stepped closer, eyes narrowing with interest. “But lucky you, I’m very real. And I haven’t had a good prank since Beltane.” She leaned in, close enough that her breath brushed his ear. “Tell me, forest boy... are you easily enchanted?” He stammered something unintelligible. She giggled—a sound that made flowers bloom out of season and squirrels faint from blushing too hard. “Excellent,” she said. “Let’s ruin your life in the most delightful way possible.” And with that, the game began. The man, whose name—he eventually confessed—was Theo, was precisely the sort of earnest, over-educated wanderer Virla adored to torment. He kept saying things like, “This isn’t scientifically possible,” while she made his shoelaces vanish and his socks begin debating one another in fluent squirrel. Virla called it a meet-cute. Theo called it neurological collapse. Tomato, tomahto. On their first “date”—a term Virla delighted in because it made him visibly uncomfortable—she took him to a mushroom circle that giggled when stepped on and tried to eat your toes if you insulted their spores. Theo tried to take samples. The mushrooms tried to take his boots. Virla nearly cried from laughter. “I thought fairies were supposed to be helpful,” Theo grunted as he wrestled a particularly clingy fungus off his ankle. “That’s like saying cats are supposed to fetch,” she replied, floating upside down and licking honey off a pinecone. “Helpful is boring. I’m whimsical. With an edge.” Over the next week—if you can call that stretch of twisted, time-bending chaos a “week”—Theo learned several things: Never accept tea from a sprite unless you want to meow for three hours straight. Forest nymphs gossip worse than old barmaids with crystal balls. Virla had an addiction to glitter. And revenge. But mostly glitter. One morning, Theo awoke to find a crown of beetles braided into his hair. They chanted his name like a sports team warming up. Virla just leaned against a tree, wings aglow, picking her teeth with a pine needle. “Adorable, aren’t they?” she cooed. “They’re emotionally co-dependent. You’re their god now.” “I’m going to need therapy,” he muttered. “Probably. But you’ll be adorable while unraveling.” And then came the accident. Or, as Virla later put it: “The gloriously unintentional consequences of my perfectly intentional mischief.” You see, she’d enchanted a stream to flow in reverse just to confuse a cranky water sprite. She didn’t mean for Theo to fall into it. Nor did she expect the ripple of enchanted logic to reset part of his biology. When he climbed out, sputtering and wet, he looked... different. Taller. Sharper. More fae than man. His ears had curled, his irises shimmered like frost under starlight, and he suddenly understood everything the mushrooms were saying. “Virla,” he growled, wiping river moss from his face. “What the hell did you do to me?” She blinked, momentarily caught off-guard. “I was going to ask if you wanted breakfast, but this is so much better.” He grabbed a reflection from the water—because yes, in Emberglow, reflections are mobile and gossipy—and studied his new features. “You turned me into a fae?” She shrugged, smile playing on her lips. “Technically, the stream did. I just… encouraged the possibility.” “Why?” “Because you’re fun.” He stared. “You ruined my life.” “I improved it. You now have better cheekbones and an immune system that can handle eating glowing berries. Honestly, you’re welcome.” Theo looked like he was going to protest. But then he sighed, dropped onto a mossy log, and muttered, “Fine. What now? Do I have to steal babies or dance in circles under the moon or something?” Virla sat beside him. Her wing brushed his shoulder. “Only if you want to. You’ve got options. Trick a prince. Woo a dryad. Make a frog orchestra. Live a little. You're not shackled to mortal mediocrity anymore.” He considered. Then, slowly, he smiled. “Okay. But if I’m going to live like a fae, I want a new name.” Virla grinned so wide it nearly cracked the forest in half. “Darling, I was hoping you’d say that. Let’s call you… Fey-o.” He groaned. “No.” “Fayoncé?” “Virla.” “Fine. We’ll workshop it.” And so, the Devilish Sprite of Emberglow Forest gained a partner—not in crime, exactly, but in mischief. Together, they became legends whispered among the brambles, the reasons travelers found their boots singing or their pants inexplicably braided. And Theo? He never got back to his research. But he did learn to levitate goats.     Bring Virla Home: If you’ve fallen under the spell of Virla and her devilish charm, you don’t have to wander into enchanted woods to keep her mischief nearby. Capture her fiery wings and wicked grin on beautifully crafted products from our Emberglow Collection. Metal Prints – Sleek, vibrant, and gallery-ready, perfect for making a bold statement in your space. Canvas Prints – Add fantasy to your walls with rich texture and color that brings her forest magic to life. Throw Pillows – Add a splash of fae sass to your couch, reading nook, or secret lair. Tote Bags – Carry chaos with you in style—Virla-approved mischief capacity included. Each piece is a slice of the story, designed to turn your everyday life into something just a bit more enchanted… and unpredictable.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Eggcellent Trio

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

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Love in Small Gestures

The Eye of the World The Eye had always been there. Silent. Watching. Weeping. No one knew exactly where it came from — it was simply discovered one soft, gray dawn, nestled into the hillside like a secret the earth couldn’t keep any longer. Massive and alive, it blinked slow as tides, its iris glistening with a deep, knowing hazel, the kind of color you could lose years in. The Eye never spoke, though the villagers swore they heard murmurs when the wind stirred just right. Some said it belonged to a sleeping god. Others, that it had watched the world too long and wept for what it saw. But most simply left offerings at the base: coins, candles, hand-written prayers folded small as beetles. And still, the Eye cried. That was until Mira wandered into the glade, dragging a damp blanket and a half-eaten pear. She was four, maybe five. Small by any standard but determined in that way only children and wildflowers can be. Her parents thought she was napping. Instead, she was following the trail of petals she’d been dropping all week, convinced they would lead her to something magical. She was right. The Eye blinked at her. She blinked back, wiped her nose on her sleeve, then frowned. “You’re sad.” It wept again, the tear pooling until it spilled from the lower lid and began its slow, luminous descent. Mira didn’t flinch. She watched it with a grave sort of calm, then pulled the blanket from her shoulders, bunched it up in her tiny fists, and reached upward. She couldn't possibly touch the Eye — not really — but she reached anyway. On tiptoes, arms high, she offered the cloth like a holy thing. And for the first time, the tear did not fall to the ground. It touched the blanket… and vanished like a sigh into her outstretched hands. The Eye stilled. In the hush that followed, something shifted — not in the sky or the trees, but in the space behind things. The kind of change that only happens when someone chooses love over logic, kindness over comprehension. Mira patted the air gently and whispered, “It’s okay. I get sad too. But it helps when someone sees you.” The wind carried her words upward, and the Eye, impossibly, softened. The Child and the Colossus The villagers were the first to notice the change. Birds sang differently. The morning mist arrived a little later, lingered a little longer. Old Elric, who hadn’t seen color since the war, claimed the flowers were “louder.” Children began laughing more, not louder — just more. It was as though joy had been quietly invited back to the village, and no one knew exactly who had mailed the invitation. Mira returned to the Eye every day after that. Sometimes she brought a different cloth — a wash rag, a scarf, her father’s old undershirt that she’d filched from the laundry bin. Other times, she brought stories. “Today I got a star sticker for coloring inside the lines. I didn’t mean to, it just happened.” “I tried peas again. Still gross.” “I think trees are just really slow people.” The Eye listened. It blinked. Sometimes, it cried. But not always — and when it did, the tears seemed… lighter. Like clouds letting go of rain they no longer needed to carry. One afternoon, Mira brought a small jar. It was glass, painted in streaks of wild blue and glittering green. She stood beneath the Eye, waited until a tear fell, and caught it with care. “This one’s for my mama. She’s been sad in the mornings.” The Eye blinked, the edges of its lid twitching — not in confusion, but something older… recognition. Understanding. By the end of the week, Mira had an entire shelf in her bedroom filled with “tears.” Some for her mother, who woke up tired. Some for her father, who had forgotten how to laugh with his teeth. One was labeled with a drawing of the family dog who’d gone away. She never gave the tears as gifts, only kept them like tiny, sacred promises — reminders that sadness wasn’t bad, just heavy. And that someone, somewhere, had helped her carry it for a while. The villagers eventually followed her example. They no longer left coins or candles at the base of the Eye. They left notes. Confessions. Crayon drawings. They whispered apologies into jars, sang lullabies into empty cups, tucked little poems into tree roots, believing — rightly — that the Eye would hear. And all the while, Mira grew. Not fast, not suddenly — like a melody you don’t realize you’ve been humming until someone else joins in. The Eye never stopped watching her, even as she grew taller, and the space between them became more and more balanced. She still brought cloths sometimes, though now they were sewn into proper handkerchiefs. She still talked, though her stories had bigger words and more pauses. And when the Eye cried, she was still there, arms ready, even if her heart was the cloth now. On her sixteenth birthday, she stood before the Eye one last time. It was raining, but she didn’t flinch. She didn’t speak. She simply pressed her hand to its lid — it was cool, like stone warmed by memory — and whispered, “Thank you for seeing me, too.” The Eye blinked… and smiled. Not in any way mouths smile. But in the way dawn sometimes feels like a held breath finally exhaled. And though she walked away that day, Mira never truly left. Because when the world became too sharp, too loud, too broken — there were always those who remembered the girl with the cloth and the Eye that cried. And they taught their children, and those children taught theirs, that love doesn’t need a reason. It only needs a moment. A gesture. A reaching upward. And so the Eye still watches. Still weeps. But not always in sorrow. Sometimes… in awe.     Epilogue: Jars of Light Years later, the stories of the Eye and the girl who dried its tears became legend. But unlike most legends, this one didn’t gather dust or become bloated with grandiosity. It remained simple. Gentle. Whispered from one soul to another, passed like a folded note in a quiet classroom of the universe. Some say Mira became a healer. Others, a poet. A few insist she was just a girl who once listened hard enough to be heard by something ancient. But everyone remembers the jars. They became relics — not of power, but of presence. Tiny glass vessels holding something you couldn’t quite explain but always recognized: the feeling of being loved without needing to be fixed. To this day, travelers who find their way to the glade will sometimes see a child — never the same one twice — standing below the Eye, cloth in hand, speaking softly into the vastness. And always, the Eye listens. Because some truths outlive time, and some hearts, no matter how small, leave behind ripples that change everything they touch. And in those ripples, among the trees and morning hush, you might just hear it — not a voice, not a whisper, but something closer: A gesture of love, still reaching up.     Bring the Story Home Let the emotion and beauty of “Love in Small Gestures” live beyond the screen. Whether it’s to inspire, to soothe, or simply to remind you of the quiet strength in tenderness, this image is now available in a variety of beautiful formats for your space: Framed Print – A timeless, gallery-worthy presentation that brings elegance and sentiment to any wall. Metal Print – Vivid, sleek, and durable—this modern format makes every detail of the image pop. Wall Tapestry – Soft, flowing fabric turns your space into a sanctuary of meaning and memory. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in comfort and compassion. Perfect for quiet evenings and thoughtful gifts. Let this story stay with you — not just in memory, but in the moments between. Because love, as always, lives in the small things.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Tongues and Talons

Of Eggs, Egos, and Explosions Burlap Tinklestump never planned to be a father. He could barely manage adult gnomehood, what with the ale debts, magical gardening fines, and one unresolved beef with the local frog choir. But destiny—or more precisely, a slightly intoxicated hedgehog named Fergus—had other ideas. It began, as these things often do, with a dare. “Lick it,” Fergus slurred, pointing at a cracked, iridescent egg nestled in the roots of a fireberry tree. “Betcha won’t.” “Bet I will,” Burlap shot back, without even asking what species it belonged to. He’d just finished chugging a fermented root beer so strong it could strip bark. His judgment was, generously, compromised. And so, with a tongue that had already survived three chili-eating contests and one unfortunate bee spell, Burlap gave the egg a full, slobbery swipe. It cracked. It hissed. It combusted. Out hatched a baby dragon—tiny, green, and already pissed off. The newborn let out a screech like a kettle having an existential crisis, flared its wings, and promptly bit Burlap on the nose. Sparks flew. Burlap screamed. Fergus passed out in a daffodil patch. “Well,” Burlap wheezed, prying the tiny jaws off his face, “guess that’s parenting now.” He named the dragon Singe, partly for the way it charred everything it sneezed on, and partly because it had already reduced his favorite pants to ashes. Singe, for his part, adopted Burlap in that aloof, vaguely threatening way that only dragons and cats truly master. He rode around on the gnome’s shoulder, hissed at authority figures, and developed a taste for roasted insects and sarcasm. Within weeks, the two became inseparable—and entirely insufferable. Together they perfected the art of mischief in the Dinglethorn Wilds: lacing faerie tea with fireball elixirs, redirecting squirrel migration routes with enchanted nut decoys, and once swapping the Wishing Pond’s coins with shiny goblin poker chips. The forest folk tried to reason with them. That failed. They tried to bribe them with mushroom pies. That almost worked. But it wasn’t until Burlap used Singe to light a ceremonial elvish tapestry—during a wedding, no less—that real consequences came knocking. The Elvish Postal Authority, a guild feared even by trolls, issued a notice of severe misconduct, public disruption, and ‘unauthorized flame-based object alteration’. It arrived via flaming pigeon. “We have to go underground,” Burlap declared. “Or up. Higher ground. Strategic advantage. Less paperwork.” And that’s when he discovered the Mushroom. It was colossal—an ancient, towering toadstool rumored to be sentient and mildly perverted. Burlap moved in immediately. He carved a spiral staircase up the stalk, installed a hammock made of recycled spider silk, and nailed a crooked sign to the cap: The High Fungus Consulate – Diplomatic Immunity & Spores for All. “We live here now,” he told Singe, who replied by incinerating a squirrel who’d asked for rent. The gnome nodded in approval. “Good. They’ll respect us.” Respect, as it turned out, was not the first reaction. The Forest Council called an emergency tribunal. Queen Glimmer sent an ambassador. The owlfolk drafted sanctions. And the elvish inspector returned—this time with a flamethrower of his own and a 67-count indictment scroll. Burlap, wearing a ceremonial robe made of moss and buttons, greeted him with a manic grin. “Tell your queen I demand recognition. Also, I licked the tax form. It’s legally mine now.” The inspector opened his mouth to reply—just as Singe sneezed a fireball the size of a cantaloupe into his boots. Chaos had only just begun. Fire, Fungi, and the Fall of Forest Law Three days after the incident with the flaming boots, Burlap and Singe stood trial in the Grand Glade Tribunal—an ancient patch of sacred forest converted into a courthouse by some very judgmental birches. The crowd was massive. Pixies with protest signs, dryads holding petitions, a group of anarchist hedgehogs chanting “NO SHROOM WITHOUT REPRESENTATION!” and at least one confused centaur who thought this was an herbalist expo. Burlap, in a robe made from stitched-together leaves and sandwich wrappers, sat perched atop a velvet mushroom throne he'd smuggled in from his “consulate.” Singe, now the size of a medium turkey and infinitely more combustible, sat curled on the gnome’s lap with a smug expression that only a creature born of fire and entitlement could maintain. Queen Glimmer presided. Her silver wings fluttered with restrained fury as she read the charges: “Unlawful dragon domestication. Unauthorized toadstool expansion. Misuse of enchanted flatulence. And one count of insulting a tree priest with interpretive dance.” “That last one was art,” Burlap muttered. “You can’t charge for expression.” “You danced on his altar while yelling ‘SPORE THIS!’” “He started it.” As the trial went on, things unraveled fast. The badger militia presented charred evidence, including half a mailbox and a wedding veil. Burlap called a raccoon named Dave as a character witness, who mostly tried to steal the bailiff’s pocket watch. Singe testified in the form of smoke puffs and mild arson. And then, as tensions peaked, Burlap unveiled his trump card: a magically binding diplomatic document written in ancient fungal script. “Behold!” he shouted, slapping the scroll onto the stump of testimony. “The Spores of Sanctuary Accord! Signed by the Fungus King himself—may his gills ever flourish.” Everyone gasped. Mostly because it smelled awful. Queen Glimmer read it carefully. “This... this is a menu from a questionable mushroom bar in the Marshes of Meh.” “Still binding,” Burlap replied. “It’s laminated.” In the chaos that followed—wherein a squirrel delegate threw a nut bomb, a pixie went rogue with glitter-based spells, and Singe decided the time was ripe for his first true roar—the trial collapsed into something more closely resembling a music festival run by toddlers with matches. And Burlap, never one to miss a dramatic exit, whistled for his getaway plan: a flying wheelbarrow powered by fermented gnome gas and old firework enchantments. He climbed aboard with Singe, gave a two-finger salute to the crowd, and shouted, “The High Fungus Consulate shall rise again! Preferably on Tuesdays!” They vanished in a trail of smoke, fire, and what smelled suspiciously like roasted garlic and regret. Weeks later, the Mushroom Embassy was declared a public hazard and burned down—though some claim it grew back overnight, taller, weirder, and faintly humming jazz. Burlap and Singe were never captured. They became legends. Myths. The kind whispered by tavern bards who smirk when the lute chords go slightly off tune. Some say they live in the Outer Bramble now, where law fears to tread and gnomes make their own constitutions. Others claim they opened a food truck specializing in spicy mushroom tacos and dragon-brewed cider. But one thing’s clear: Wherever there’s laughter, smoke, and a mushroom slightly out of place… Burlap Tinklestump and Singe are probably nearby, plotting their next ridiculous rebellion against authority, order, and pants. The forest forgives many things—but it never forgets a well-cooked elvish tax scroll.     EPILOGUE – The Gnome, the Dragon, and the Whispering Spores Years passed in the Dinglethorn Wilds, though “years” is a fuzzy term in a forest where time bends politely around mushroom rings and the moon occasionally takes Tuesdays off. The tale of Burlap Tinklestump and Singe grew roots and wings, mutating with every retelling. Some said they overthrew a goblin mayor. Others swore they built a fortress made entirely of stolen doorbells. One rumor claimed Singe fathered an entire generation of spicy-tempered wyvernlings, all with a flair for interpretive fire dancing. The truth was, as usual, far stranger. Burlap and Singe lived free, nomadic, and joyfully unaccountable. They wandered from glade to glade, stirring trouble like a spoon in a bubbling pot. They crashed fae garden parties, rewrote troll toll policies with sock puppets, and opened a short-lived consulting firm called Gnomebody’s Business, which specialized in diplomatic sabotage and mushroom real estate. They were kicked out of seventeen realms. Burlap framed each eviction notice and hung them with pride in whatever hollow log or enchanted gazebo they currently squatted in. Singe grew stronger, wiser, and no less chaotic. By adulthood, he could torch a beanstalk mid-air while spelling out rude words in smoke. He’d developed an affinity for jazz flute, enchanted bacon, and sneezing contests. And through it all, he remained perched—either on Burlap’s shoulder, his head, or on the nearest flammable object. Burlap aged only in theory. His beard got longer. His pranks got crueler. But his laugh—oh, that full-bodied, giddy cackle—echoed through the forest like a mischievous anthem. Even the trees began to lean in when he passed, eager to hear what idiocy he’d utter next. Eventually, they disappeared entirely. No sightings. No fire trails. Just silence… and mushrooms. Glowing, tall, gnarled mushrooms appeared wherever they’d once been—often with singe marks, bite impressions, and, occasionally, indecent graffiti. The High Fungus Consulate, it seems, had simply gone... airborne. To this day, if you enter the Dinglethorn at twilight and tell a lie with a grin, you might hear a chuckle on the wind. And if you leave behind a pie, a bad poem, or a political pamphlet soaked in brandy—well, let’s just say that pie might come back flaming, annotated, and demanding a seat at the council table. Because Burlap and Singe weren’t just legends. They were a warning wrapped in laughter, tied with fire, and sealed with a mushroom stamp.     Bring the Mischief Home – Shop "Tongues and Talons" Collectibles Feeling the itch to cause some magical mayhem of your own? Invite Burlap and Singe into your world with our exclusive Tongues and Talons collection — crafted for rebels, dreamers, and mushroom-loving firestarters. 🔥 Metal Print: Bold, gleaming, and built to withstand even a dragon sneeze — this metal print captures every detail of the gnome-dragon duo’s chaotic charm in razor-sharp resolution. 🖼️ Canvas Print: Add a splash of whimsy and fire to your walls with this stunning canvas print. It’s storytelling, texture, and toadstool glory all in one frame-worthy piece. 🛋️ Throw Pillow: Need a cozy companion for your next mischief-filled nap? Our Tongues and Talons throw pillow is the softest way to keep dragon energy on your couch — no scorch marks included. 👜 Tote Bag: Whether you're hauling forbidden scrolls, enchanted snacks, or questionable diplomatic documents, this tote bag has your back with sturdy style and spellbinding flair. Shop now and carry a little bit of chaos, laughter, and legendary fungus with you — wherever your next adventure leads.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Last Gherkin

The Jarred Truth Gus was a gherkin, but not just any gherkin. He was the last one in the veggie drawer with dreams. Real, fermented, ambitious dreams. He wanted more than life as a garnish next to a burger. He wanted to be seen. To be respected. Maybe even—dare he whisper it—dipped in ranch and worshiped by stoners at midnight. But fate had other plans. Cold, briny plans. He awoke one morning to the wet snap of a rubber glove and the shrill sound of “time to clean the fridge,” which every vegetable knew meant one thing: The Purge. Carrots vanished. Celery sticks were chopped without mercy. And then… the jar. It sat there. Ominous. Full of his sliced brothers and sisters, faces frozen in pickled horror. Floaters, they were called in the drawer. Veterans of the Vinegar War. Some had been dill, others bread-and-butter. All were casualties of the same cruel process: sliced, soaked, and sealed away. “No no no… not the jar,” Gus whimpered, his tiny gherkin knees knocking together. “I’ve got plans! I’ve got dreams! I’ve got at least two weeks of shelf life left!” He darted behind a jar of expired pesto, but it was no use. The Fridge God’s hand descended, rummaging. “Where the hell did I put that last pickle?” came the voice, cavernous and cruel. Gus knew he was being hunted like a snackable fugitive. He made a break for it, slipping off the produce shelf, rolling with terrifying grace past the almond milk and over a forgotten blueberry. It was majestic. It was suicidal. Unfortunately, he forgot the laws of fridge physics—mainly that the bottom drawer had no traction. He skidded, tumbled, and landed right in front of the cursed thing. The Jar. Its lid twinkled like a stainless-steel executioner’s axe. Inside, the pickles swirled, glassy-eyed and expressionless. One of them mouthed something at him. It looked like “run,” but it could’ve also been “rum.” Either way, it was a bad sign. “You don’t have to do this!” Gus screamed as the hand closed in. “Take the mustard! It’s expired! TAKE THE MUSTARD, YOU MONSTER!” But it was too late. The hand gripped him like a cruel god plucking a mortal soul from a salad bar. Dill or Be Dilled Gus’s scream echoed through the cold cathedral of the refrigerator. The other condiments looked away—ketchup wept softly, while the mayo just muttered, “Not again.” This wasn’t their war. They’d seen too many perish. Too many dreams pickled. He was placed on the cutting board like an offering to the kitchen gods, the giant looming over him wielding a knife that could fillet a zucchini into trauma. Gus tried diplomacy. “Listen, big guy. Maybe we talk this out, huh? You look like someone who enjoys a well-aged cheese. I could introduce you to Brie. She's cultured. Flexible. Way more your type.” The blade paused. For a second, Gus thought he saw hesitation in the human’s eyes. But no. It was just a reflection of the ceiling fan. Reality sharpened like the knife’s edge. Then came the horror. Not slicing. No—worse. He was picked up, inspected… and tossed into the jar. Whole. Untouched. Alive. Gus hit the brine like a cannonball of fear, bobbing helplessly among the saucer-eyed slices of his kin. “Why am I still whole?! This is some Silence of the Cucumbers level crap!” One of the floaters drifted over. His name was Carl. Carl had been a cucumber in a past life, before the Big Slice. Now he floated, all zen and pickled. “You get used to it,” Carl murmured. “Eventually your soul ferments. Just let the brine in.” “Let the brine in?! I DON’T WANT TO BE SOUP-INFUSED! I HAD A CRUSH ON A CHERRY TOMATO!” Gus bellowed, slamming his little fists into the glass. Outside, life went on. The fridge door opened periodically—light flooding in like a judgmental god. A bottle of kombucha exploded somewhere on the top shelf. A tofu block quietly expired. No one cared. Weeks passed. Or maybe hours. Time meant nothing in the pickle jar. Gus began to lose his grip. He wrote manifestos in mustard on the inside of the glass. He developed a briny accent. He started talking to a baby corn cob named Victor, who may or may not have been real. And then, one day… The jar opened. “Finally,” Gus whispered. “Rescue. Freedom. A chance to tell my story. Maybe even a Netflix deal.” But instead, the hand reached past him. Took a slice. Closed the lid again. Gus floated there, suspended in the sour silence of rejection. That’s when it hit him. He was too whole. Too intact. Too… special. They’d never eat him. He was cursed to witness it all—forever floating, forever fermenting, forever screaming on the inside while maintaining his outward crunch. And so he remains. The last gherkin. Guardian of the Jar. Screaming into the void of dill-infused eternity. Look deep enough into the brine… and the brine looks back.     Epilogue: The Cult of the Crunch Some say Gus still floats there, whispering secrets to the baby corn. Others claim he finally merged with the brine and ascended into a higher state of snack consciousness. A few believe he escaped during a blackout and now runs an underground support group for traumatized vegetables behind the crisper drawer. The jar sits on the shelf, slightly fogged, oddly glowing. People open the fridge, stare at it, and feel a chill. They can't explain why. They just know that something is… watching. Judging. Probably pickled. And late at night, if you press your ear to the lid, you might just hear a faint whisper carried on the vinegar vapors: “Don’t get sliced. Get out while you’re fresh.” But by then… it’s already too late.     Take Gus Home (Before the Brine Claims Him) If you've laughed, cringed, or had a mild existential crisis reading the tale of The Last Gherkin, why not invite Gus into your home? Gus is now available in a variety of forms for your twisted decor needs: Framed Print – Perfect for your kitchen, breakroom, or pickle panic room. Acrylic Print – For those who like their horror crisp and their humor transparent. Metal Print – Industrial-strength absurdity for your gallery wall or mad scientist lab. Tote Bag – Carry the trauma with you, in style. Don't just read about Gus. Live with him. Haunt your own fridge.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Featherlight Guardian

Of Mushrooms, Mayhem, and a Very Unimpressed Owl Deep within the Verdant Verge—a forest so enchanted it once accidentally turned a lumberjack into a pinecone—perched a creature of such delicate fluff and sarcastic judgment that even the fairies feared her side-eye. She was the Featherlight Guardian. Not *a* guardian. The Guardian. Capital T. Capital Attitude. Her name was Mabel, and she was an owl. Well, technically. If you asked her, she’d tell you she was “a divine combination of ethereal fluff, guardian-grade wisdom, and naturally curled lashes that don't require enhancement, thank you very much.” With feathers dipped in hues of midnight blue, scandalous scarlet, and a yellow that could make the sun insecure, Mabel wasn’t just a sight—she was a statement. Her giant sapphire eyes had seen a thousand moons, a few awkward forest rituals, and at least one very embarrassing wizard duel involving a misfired glitter spell. Mabel’s job—her sacred duty—was to guard the Heart of the Forest: a magical glen containing the roots of every tree, a lot of bioluminescent frogs with drama issues, and one eternally simmering cauldron that brewed the mood of the forest itself. She took this duty seriously. Which is why, when a band of bumbling, slightly tipsy mushroom hunters stomped into her glen one moonlit Tuesday, she let out a sigh so heavy, it shook the canopy. One of the hunters—whose name was either Jasper or Disappointment, she wasn’t sure—tried to pet her. Pet her. “I am not a therapy fluff-ball,” she hooted, unimpressed. “Touch me again and I’ll introduce your eyebrows to fireflies with boundary issues.” The hunters giggled and carried on, picking glow-shrooms with the elegance of drunk raccoons. Mabel narrowed her eyes. The Heart of the Forest was reacting—glowing brighter, pulsing faster. She could feel it—a brewing mood swing. The last time it felt like this, a tree grew upside-down and quoted Shakespeare for a month. With a whip of her rainbow-feathered wings and a dramatic sigh worthy of a soap opera priestess, Mabel fluttered down from her perch. It was time to fix this. Again. Because that’s what guardians do. But this time, she had a plan. A devious, glitter-laced, sass-infused plan that just might teach these mushroom marauders a lesson they’d never forget. Mabel smirked, her massive eyes twinkling with mischief and just a hint of vengeance. “Let the chaotic enlightenment begin,” she whispered. Glitter, Karma, and an Owl’s Slightly Vengeful Redemption Arc Now, you may be wondering: what exactly does a glitter-laced, sass-infused plan look like? Well, if you’ve ever seen an owl enchant a fungus with sentience and a flair for passive-aggressive poetry, you’re halfway there. Mabel, flapping her impossibly elegant wings, swooped toward the cauldron in the glen—the one that brewed the emotional weather of the entire forest. She whispered something ancient and slightly petty into it. The brew shimmered. The frogs croaked in falsetto. The trees leaned in. Moments later, the glen shifted. Not violently. Oh no—Mabel preferred her vengeance subtle. The mushroom hunters, who moments before were giggling and plucking things that should definitely not be plucked, paused as the forest suddenly... responded. The mushrooms started glowing in synchronized color waves. Purple. Green. Chartreuse, if you're feeling fancy. A low hum began to rise from the soil—like an a capella group warming up beneath your feet. The drunkest hunter, whose name was Chad (they always are), blinked and said, “Dude, is the dirt singing?” “Yes, Chad,” Mabel muttered from a nearby tree. “The dirt is singing, and it hates your cargo shorts.” Then, one by one, the mushrooms sprang to life. Not aggressively—no, this wasn’t that kind of story. They simply became dramatic. The largest of them stretched upward, took a deep, unnecessary breath, and announced in iambic pentameter: “Fair forest friends, these fools do treadWhere sacred roots and balance wed.Their grubby hands, their clueless cheer—Shall reap the karma growing here.” The mushroom hunters froze. Chad dropped his glow-shroom and tried to whisper, “We’re tripping,” but the mushrooms shushed him in chorus. Mabel, now perched on a branch above the glen, flared her wings like a drama teacher at a school for troubled fairies. She spoke with measured gravitas. “Welcome, mortals. You have disturbed the glen of harmony, disrupted the shrooms of sentiment, and insulted my feathers with your lack of personal grooming.” “...We were just looking for snacks,” whimpered Jasper-Probably-Disappointment. Mabel sighed, but there was something softer beneath it this time. “You silly bipeds. The forest isn’t your snack aisle. It’s alive. It feels. It gets moody. Like me. But with fewer accessories.” A hush fell over the glen. Even the frogs were quiet, save for one who softly hummed “Greensleeves” for ambiance. Mabel fluttered down to eye level, enormous sapphire gaze locking onto the mushroomers like a velvet curse. “You have one chance,” she said. “Apologize to the mushrooms, clean up your mess, and make a vow to leave this forest better than you found it. Or I unleash the moss with legs. And let me tell you, it chases.” There was, understandably, a lot of apologizing. One of the hunters even offered to start a composting blog. Mabel remained skeptical, but allowed them to flee, escorted by a parade of disapproving woodland creatures and one passive-aggressive fern. When the glen settled again, Mabel returned to her perch. The Heart of the Forest dimmed to a soft golden glow. The mood had reset. The mushrooms resumed their usual level of aloof wisdom, muttering sonnets under their breath. And Mabel? She tucked her wings in, gave her feathers a fluff, and said to herself, “Still got it.” She wasn’t just a guardian. She was a vibe. Up in the trees, the moon winked behind a lazy swirl of clouds, and the forest sighed—a little lighter, a little wiser. All under the watchful eyes of its sassiest, fluffiest, most fabulous protector: the Featherlight Guardian. The End. Or maybe the beginning of a new plan. You never know with Mabel.     ✨ Bring Mabel Home Whether you're decorating your cozy reading nook, plotting forest justice from your desk, or just love the idea of a sarcastic owl watching over your space—The Featherlight Guardian is available in enchanting formats to suit your style. Adorn your walls with her wisdom via a wood print or shimmering metal print, snuggle up with her sass on a charming throw pillow, or let her perch in your thoughts with a magical spiral notebook. Bring a little mischief and magic into your everyday—because let’s be honest, Mabel would expect nothing less.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Herbalist of Hollow Glen

Leaf & Let High Deep in the velvet folds of the Wobblewood Forest—past the babbling mushroom brooks and the sentient ferns that whisper unsolicited advice—there lived a peculiar old gnome known only as “Stibbo.” He was not a warrior, nor a wizard, nor particularly organized. But Stibbo was a herbalist, and he was damn good at it. Unlike your average garden-variety gnome, Stibbo’s specialty wasn’t just healing balms and anti-fungal moss poultices. No, no. His true gift was in the recreational application of the forest’s more... enlightening botanicals. On any given morning, you'd find Stibbo perched high on a mossy branch, swaddled in a patchwork robe of live leaves, hand-rolling the day’s inspiration with fingers calloused by centuries of chill. His hair, a wild shock of forest static, framed a face permanently crinkled into a blissed-out grin. His eyes? Perpetually half-closed—as though squinting at reality from a slightly different dimension. Stibbo had a philosophy he liked to call “Photosynthesis of the Soul.” The idea was simple: you sit still in the sunlight, puff something leafy, and allow your thoughts to grow roots and vines and little internal flowers. “Grow inside,” he’d say, “and you won’t need pants out here.” He was the unofficial shaman of the Hollow Glen, offering guidance (or at least amusing ramblings) to travelers who’d taken a wrong turn or were simply high enough to end up there on purpose. His regulars included a raccoon named Steve who only spoke in interpretive dance, a troupe of bisexual frogs who ran a drum circle on Wednesdays, and a dryad going through a messy breakup with an oak tree. One day, a human named Trevor stumbled into the glen, visibly lost and visibly stressed. He wore khakis, which immediately triggered Stibbo’s suspicion. “A pants-wearer,” Stibbo whispered to a nearby snail. “Corporate energy. We must help him.” Trevor was in finance. Or used to be. Burned out from the hustle, he’d set off into the woods hoping for some kind of enlightenment—or at least an excuse not to check his email. That’s when he met the old herbalist, who was mid-sesh and humming an off-key version of Fleetwood Mac’s “Dreams.” “You look like a man who needs a tea made from questionable flowers,” Stibbo said, waving a smoking bundle of something suspicious in front of Trevor’s face. Trevor, too exhausted to argue, sat. Thus began his initiation into the Hollow Glen way of life—one puff, one rant, and one squirrel philosophy lesson at a time. As the sunset painted the trees in hazy oranges and greens, Stibbo leaned back against the bark and murmured, “Everything’s a leaf if you believe hard enough.” And Trevor, blinking slowly as a snail waved at him, thought... maybe he was onto something. Highdeas and Hollowcore Philosophy The next morning, Trevor awoke to find a squirrel braiding his hair and humming a reggae version of Beethoven's Fifth. He blinked. Was he still dreaming? Possibly. But the aroma of sizzling pine mushroom pancakes lured him fully awake, and when he rolled over, there was Stibbo—grinning, pan already in hand, frying breakfast on a flat stone warmed by psychic energy (or maybe it was just the sun). “Morning, Pants-Man,” Stibbo chirped. “You snored out a haiku last night. Something about spreadsheets and inner peace.” Trevor sat up slowly, leaf-crumbs in his eyebrows, and nodded solemnly. “That sounds right.” Over breakfast—flavored with what Stibbo called “empathy truffles” and “existential cinnamon”—the old herbalist decided it was time for Trevor to begin his spiritual journey. Or, more accurately, a gentle stumble through layers of mild confusion and cosmic nonsense, wrapped in fragrant smoke and metaphors involving bark. “You see, the forest is a mirror,” Stibbo said, licking sap off his thumb. “And also a bong. Depends how you look at it.” Trevor took a bite of pancake. “I think I’m ready to find my truth.” “Ha!” Stibbo cackled. “Good luck with that. But hey, let’s go talk to Gronkle. He’s a toad who used to be a monk. Real good with paradoxes.” The Quest for the Cosmic Chill Their journey took them through trails no map had ever dared chart—paths that looped, swirled, and occasionally spoke Latin backwards. They crossed a bridge made of suspended spiderwebs and optimism, and passed under an archway made entirely of hemp vines and glowing fungus. Along the way, they encountered: A sentient dandelion who claimed to be a tax accountant in a past life and still offered free consultations. An owl named Chad who gave unsolicited advice about polyamory and fire safety. A moss-covered rock with the uncanny ability to play Lo-Fi beats, vibing non-stop for 300 years. When they finally reached Gronkle the Toad-Monk, he was sitting in a puddle of herbal tea, croaking softly while contemplating a mushroom cap. Trevor bowed respectfully. “What is the nature of bliss?” he asked. Gronkle blinked slowly, then replied: “Bliss is the absence of spreadsheets and the presence of snackies.” Trevor cried a little. The Ceremony of Smokelight That night, the Glen held a ritual: the **Ceremony of Smokelight**, where beings of all types—gnomes, sprites, talking vines, and even Chad the Owl—gathered to share a communal smoke and release their worries into the stars. Trevor was handed a ceremonial cone so large it required two dryads to light it. As the Glen buzzed with laughter, drum circles, and a literal fog of good vibes, Stibbo stood before the crowd, arms raised, leafy robe twirling in the wind. “Brothers, sisters, fungi, all! Let us inhale our regrets and exhale our realizations! Let the sacred puff carry your burdens to the forest Wi-Fi!” Trevor took his first deep inhale of the sacred Smokelight blend—part pine, part something that might’ve been mint, and part... stardust? Suddenly, he saw everything. The stock market. The squirrel braid. The spreadsheet cells forming a pattern that resembled ancient runes. He laughed. Loudly. A tree joined in. And in that moment, surrounded by weirdos, wisdom, and really excellent snacks, Trevor realized: this was home now. Stibbo’s Final Lesson Later that night, as fireflies danced and someone played panflute dubstep in the distance, Stibbo sat beside Trevor and passed him one last smoke. “You’ve come a long way, my khaki-clad brother,” Stibbo said. “Remember, life’s just a big wandering. You don’t always need a destination. Sometimes it’s enough to vibe.” Trevor looked up at the stars and whispered, “I think I’m finally chill.” “Damn right,” said Stibbo. “Now help me find my other shoe. I swear I left it inside that tree.” And so, under a sky full of glowing spores and lazy constellations, the Herbalist of Hollow Glen lit another one, and the vibe went on… forever.     Epilogue – The Wind in the Leaves Years passed in Hollow Glen, though no one was really counting. Time, in that part of the forest, had agreed to chill out and stop being so linear. Trevor—now affectionately known as “Reeferend Trev”—became a fixture in the community. He traded his khakis for a robe of woven moss, learned the names of every talking mushroom, and could identify 72 types of mood-enhancing foliage by smell alone. He never went back to finance. Occasionally he’d get a vision of a boardroom or a pie chart, shiver, and then hug a nearby tree until it passed. His former life faded like a dream, replaced by moments of pure present: brewing bark tea at sunrise, debating metaphysics with lizards, or just lying in a hammock woven from vines, vibing to the sounds of forest jazz. As for Stibbo, he never changed. He just grew a bit leafier, a bit wiser, and slightly more forgetful in charming ways. When asked how old he was, he’d usually reply, “Somewhere between 4:20 and eternity.” But one fog-sweet morning, Trevor found a message carved into the bark of their favorite tree, scrawled in Stibbo’s unmistakable wiggly script: "Gone walkabout. Found a talking comet. Be back when the stars forget how to argue. Water the mushrooms and tell Chad to chill." No one panicked. That was just Stibbo being Stibbo. He always came back. Probably. But even if he didn’t, the Glen was in good hands. Trevor kept the tea steeping, the vibes flowing, and every new wanderer welcomed with an open branch and a fresh roll. And if you ever find yourself off-path, a little lost, or completely zooted in a mossy clearing with the sense that the trees are laughing gently at your existence—well, you might just be near Hollow Glen. Take a deep breath. Sit down. Listen for panflute dubstep. And remember what the Herbalist always said: “Reality’s optional. But kindness? That sh*t’s essential.”     🛒 Bring the Vibe Home If you found yourself smiling (or spiritually exhaling) somewhere in this tale, you can keep a little piece of the Hollow Glen with you. Canvas prints and wood-mounted art bring Stibbo’s leafy grin to your wall. Or go mobile with a vinyl sticker that travels with you like a tiny forest guardian. Feeling generous? Send some Hollow Glen wisdom with a greeting card—perfect for birthdays, apologies, or deeply weird thank-you notes.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Woodland Wonder Twins: Nutorious Mischief

The Branch of Bad Decisions In the heart of the ancient Windlewood Forest, where the moss grows thick and secrets grow thicker, there lived two chipmunk twins infamous across the treetops — Pip and Pea Nutters. Identical in fur but ferociously different in attitude, Pip was a hyper-charged storm of bad ideas and Pea was the sarcastic, eye-rolling accomplice who somehow always followed anyway. Their current perch? A fragile branch known in local rodent legend as "The Branch of Bad Decisions" — a spindly limb high above the forest floor where only fools or heroes dared balance. "Pea! Look at me! I'm King of the Forest!" Pip screeched dramatically, arms flung wide like an unhinged woodland messiah. His tail twitched with the energy of a creature who had absolutely never considered consequences. Below him, Pea sighed in a way only a twin brother could — equal parts fondness and fury. "You're not king of anything, Pip. You're king of future splats." Leaves swirled around them like slow-motion confetti. Pip wobbled dramatically. Pea casually dug his claws into the bark. "We should be gathering acorns like normal rodents," Pea grumbled. "BORING. Acorns wait for no chipmunk, but adventure? Adventure is like... the wind beneath my fuzzy butt!" Pip declared with wild-eyed sincerity. Somewhere below them, the elderly owl Mortimer muttered from his hollow: "Those blasted Nutters are gonna be the death of me." But Pip wasn't done. He had that dangerous glint in his eye — the one that meant a bad idea was being born at maximum speed. "You know what we should do next, Pea?" Pip asked, waggling his eyebrows. "Regret everything?" Pea deadpanned. "Even better," Pip grinned devilishly. "Branch surfing." Pea's little rodent heart sank. "Oh acorn crumbs..." Nutorious Mayhem Unleashed Branch surfing, as Pip explained (poorly), was a sport entirely invented by creatures with too much energy and not enough supervision. The idea was simple — terrifyingly simple — and, of course, incredibly stupid. "You run real fast. You jump on the branch. You ride it like a wave. Nature provides the adrenaline, and gravity does the rest," Pip said proudly, as if quoting ancient chipmunk wisdom. Pea blinked slowly. "Nature provides the broken bones too, you acorn-brained maniac." But resistance was futile. With a wild whoop that echoed through the forest like a squirrelian war cry, Pip launched himself down the sloping branch. His tiny claws skittered against the bark. His tail whipped like a streamer caught in a tornado. "WOOOOOOO!" Leaves exploded into the air. Nearby beetles abandoned their homes. A mother bird shielded her chicks' eyes. For one perfect second, Pip looked magnificent — a furry streak of chaotic joy hurtling toward disaster at impressive speed. Then physics arrived. The branch dipped under his weight. Then flexed. Then, with a noise that would forever haunt Pea's dreams, it snapped clean off — catapulting Pip skyward in a spinning, screaming blur of limbs. Pea watched his twin ascend into legend. "Heck," Pea muttered. The Aftermath Pip crashed — not into the ground, because fortune favored fools — but directly into Mortimer the Owl's laundry line. An elaborate series of bark-cloth tunics (Mortimer was an eccentric sort) wrapped around Pip like an accidental toga. He swung gently in the breeze, upside-down, looking far too pleased with himself for someone freshly ejected from a tree. "Did you see that, Pea?!" he hollered joyously. "I am unstoppable!" Mortimer poked his beak out of his hollow, unimpressed. "You're unhousebroken." Pea casually strolled down the tree, tail flicking in that older-sibling-I-told-you-so rhythm. He paused beneath his dangling brother. "Stuck again, huh?" Pea asked. "Temporarily suspended in victory," Pip corrected, upside-down grin wide as ever. And Then The Forest Watched News traveled fast in Windlewood. By the time Pea cut Pip down (with no small amount of commentary), a small crowd had gathered — squirrels, birds, a fox cub or two. They all knew the Nutters. They all knew this was far from over. "What did we learn today?" Pea asked, already regretting the question. Pip stood proudly, adjusting his laundry-tunic like royalty. "That I am a pioneer. An innovator. The future of recreational stupidity." Pea rubbed his temples. "We're going to be banned from the forest." Pip threw an arm around his brother. "Pea, my brother in bad decisions... If we get banned from one forest — there's always another." Leaves swirled. The crowd laughed. Mortimer sighed. And deep in the woods, a new branch wobbled ominously... waiting for its next terrible idea.     Epilogue: Legends in the Leaves In the weeks that followed, the legend of Pip and Pea Nutters grew like a particularly obnoxious vine — twisting through every hollow, burrow, and tavern log in the Windlewood Forest. Chipmunk kits whispered about "The Great Branch Surfing Incident" as if it were a grand historic event. Mortimer the Owl? He doubled the strength of his laundry line. Reinforced it with spider silk. Posted tiny warning signs. ("Absolutely No Nutters.") Pea found a new hobby: apologizing on behalf of his twin to literally everyone. Forest Council? Apology. The acorn vendor whose stash Pip "accidentally" converted into a slingshot experiment? Apology. The frogs who woke up wearing tiny laundry-togas? Big apology. But Pip? Oh, Pip thrived. He strutted through the woods with the chaotic energy of a squirrel-shaped celebrity. Small creatures asked for autographs (usually scratched into bark). He hosted storytelling nights where every detail grew more ridiculous. "Did I jump the entire river? Yes. Was it full of crocodiles? Obviously. Did I land on a cloud shaped like a heroic fist? Don't question my truth, Pea." And Late At Night... When the forest quieted and the wind rustled through the leaves like whispered laughter, Pea would glance at his twin — curled up in their cozy little den — and smile despite himself. Because maybe, just maybe, the world needed a little Nutters-level nonsense now and then. Besides — he was pretty sure Pip was already planning their next terrible adventure. And heaven help them all... Pea would be right there beside him. End of Mischief (For Now)     Bring the Nutters Home Love the wild energy of Pip and Pea Nutters? You're not alone — and now you can bring a little Woodland Wonder Twins mischief into your own space. Whether you're decorating a cozy reading nook, gifting a fellow chaos enthusiast, or simply want to remember that life is better with a bit of joyful nonsense — we’ve got you covered. Available Now from Unfocussed Metal Print — For bold souls who want their wall art to shine (literally). Framed Print — Class up your chaos with gallery-ready style. Tote Bag — Carry your mischief wherever you roam. Sticker — Perfect for laptops, water bottles, or anywhere that needs extra attitude. Fleece Blanket — For curling up after a long day of causing (or surviving) chaos. Each item features the whimsical charm and vibrant detail of Woodland Wonder Twins by Bill & Linda Tiepelman — ready to spark smiles wherever they land. Browse the full collection: Shop Woodland Wonder Twins

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

He Who Walks with Wind & She Who Sings to Stones

Of Beards, Boots, and Bad Decisions Long before the forest whispered their names into the moss, He Who Walks with Wind was just a humble (and slightly scruffy) gnome with a spectacularly oversized feathered headdress — the sort of thing that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. His boots were too big, his beard was too wild, and his sense of direction was... well... wind-dependent. His friends in the woods often joked that he had the charm of a river rock — hard to hold onto and prone to vanishing downstream after a bottle of pineberry wine. But everything changed the day he stumbled (quite literally) into She Who Sings to Stones. Now, she was no ordinary forest maiden. No sir. This was a woman who could calm a thunderstorm with a side-eye and convince even the crankiest badger to hand over his last berry tart. She wore a headdress of feathers softer than secrets and robes woven from mountain twilight. And worst of all (for him)... she caught him singing to his own reflection in a puddle. "Nice voice," she said, her words like warm honey but with the sharpness of a pebble in your shoe. "Do you serenade yourself often, or am I just lucky today?" And just like that — he was doomed. In the best, most embarrassing way possible. From that moment on, they became the forest’s worst-kept secret. The loudest whisper. The odd couple that critters gossiped about endlessly. He brought clumsy poems carved into sticks. She responded with mossy hearts on his walking path. He accidentally wooed her with terrible fishing skills. She let him believe he was mysterious (he wasn’t). And thus began their legendary love story — one filled with mishaps, stolen kisses behind pine trees, and enough awkward glances to fill a hollow log. View His Collection | View Her Collection Of Stones, Songs, and Stolen Things It didn’t take long for the forest to realize that He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were absolutely terrible at keeping things casual. For one, their “chance encounters” were happening so often that even the mushrooms started rolling their eyes. After all, how many times can two gnomes “accidentally” meet at the same mossy log at the exact same twilight hour without the universe winking suspiciously? But there was something about her that unraveled him. Maybe it was the way her voice floated between tree roots like a lullaby only rocks understood. Or the way her smile could disarm even the sharpest thorn bush. Or — and he would never admit this aloud — the way she stole things. Oh yes. She Who Sings to Stones was a notorious thief. Not of valuables — no. Her crimes were far worse. She stole moments. She stole his awkward pauses mid-sentence and replaced them with knowing glances. She stole the roughness from his voice with every quiet laugh. She even stole his lucky acorn — the one he swore protected him from wandering skunks (it didn’t). He found it days later tucked beneath his pillow with a note: "Protection only works if you believe in something bigger than your beard. —S" But he wasn’t innocent either. He Who Walks with Wind was a collector too — of her songs. At night, when the forest hummed low and the stars yawned above the treetops, he would follow the soft echoes of her voice. Never too close. Never letting her see. Just close enough to catch pieces of melody drifting like dandelion seeds — fragile, weightless, impossibly precious. He began carving her words into stones. Not fancy stones. Not polished gemstones. Just regular forest rocks — the kind most gnomes kick absentmindedly. But to him, these were sacred. Each carried one word of her songs: “Patience” “Kindness” “Wild” “Enough” He placed them like breadcrumbs through the forest — a map only she could read. And of course... she found them. One by one. Because she was the sort of woman who always found what was meant for her. One morning, after a night of restless dreams about her laughter echoing in the hills, he woke to find a perfect circle of stones outside his door. His stones. His words. Returned — but now surrounded by tiny wildflowers and mossy hearts. The message was clear: "If you want me — walk the path you’ve started." And so, for the first time in his rambling, wandering life... he walked with purpose. Not with the wind. But toward her. This was no longer a story of solitude. This was a story of two souls circling each other — stubborn, playful, fierce — until the forest itself held its breath. Of Forest Gossip, Awkward Kisses, and the Very Bad Squirrel Incident The thing about forest creatures is — they talk. Not just the whispery, rustle-in-the-leaves kind of talk. No. Full-blown, scandal-hungry, gossip-mongering chatter that would put any village marketplace to shame. And when the subject was He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones... well, let’s just say the squirrels were holding meetings. “Did you see him trip over his own staff yesterday trying to look heroic?” “She smiled at him again. That’s the third time this week. It’s basically a marriage proposal.” “I give it two more days before he tries to build her a house made entirely of sticks and regret.” Even the owls — who usually prided themselves on dignified silence — were side-eyeing from the treetops. But despite the forest-wide commentary, their story kept weaving itself in unexpected ways. Take, for example, the Very Bad Squirrel Incident. It all started when he — in a misguided attempt at romance — decided to gather her favorite forest berries for a surprise breakfast. What he didn’t know was that those particular berries were under the jealous watch of the local squirrel matriarch — a wiry old beast known as Grumbletail. The moment his clumsy hands reached for the berries, the squirrels launched a coordinated attack with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for territorial foxes and bad poetry readings. He arrived at her cottage hours later — scratched, tangled, missing one boot, and carrying exactly one sad little berry in his dirt-covered palm. She blinked at him, standing there like a wind-blown scarecrow of embarrassment. “You absolute fool,” she whispered. But her eyes — stars above, her eyes — were sparkling with something wild and dangerous and impossibly soft. And then — because the forest gods have a twisted sense of humor — it happened. The First Kiss. It wasn’t elegant. There was nothing poetic about it. He leaned in at the exact moment she turned her head to laugh and the whole thing ended with a bumped nose, an awkward tangle of beard, and her muffled giggle against his chest. But when their lips finally met — really met — it was like every stone he’d ever carved, every word he’d ever stolen from her songs, every ridiculous misstep... finally made sense. The wind forgot to blow. The trees leaned in closer. Even Grumbletail — watching from a safe distance — begrudgingly approved. Afterwards, sitting beneath a crooked old pine, they laughed until their sides ached. Not because it was funny (though it absolutely was) — but because that’s what love felt like for them: Messy. Ridiculous. Beautifully imperfect. As the sun melted into the horizon, she poked him gently with her finger. “If you ever steal berries from Grumbletail again, I’m not saving you,” she teased. “Worth it,” he grinned, pulling her close. And just like that — two souls who had spent a lifetime walking alone... began learning how to stay. Of Vows, Feathers, and Forever Things The forest had been waiting for this day for longer than it would ever admit. Word had spread faster than a startled rabbit — He Who Walks with Wind and She Who Sings to Stones were getting married. And let me tell you — no one throws a celebration like woodland creatures with too much time and too many opinions. The Preparations Were... Something The owls insisted on handling the invitations (delivered in tiny scrolls tied with fern ribbons). The badgers argued for three days about what type of moss made the best aisle runner. Grumbletail the Squirrel — yes, that Grumbletail — shockingly volunteered to oversee security, muttering something about "keeping things civilized." The ceremony location? The Heartstone Clearing — a sacred, wildly overgrown circle deep in the woods where stones hummed if you listened close enough... and where countless gnome love stories were rumored to have begun (and ended, often with dramatic flair). The Bride Was Magic She Who Sings to Stones wore a gown stitched from twilight — soft greys, rich earth tones, and wildflowers braided through her long silver hair. Her headdress was adorned not just with feathers, but with tiny carved stones — each one gifted to her by him over their impossible journey together. She looked like a song made visible. The kind of song that quiets storms and stirs ancient roots. The Groom Was... Trying His Best He Who Walks with Wind was absolutely, hopelessly nervous. He’d polished his boots (which promptly got muddy). He’d combed his beard (which immediately tangled in a rogue twig). His headdress was slightly crooked. But his eyes... his eyes never left her. As she stepped into the clearing, every creature — from the smallest beetle to the loftiest owl — felt it: This wasn’t just love. This was home. The Vows (Improvised, Of Course) He cleared his throat (twice). "I never knew the wind could lead me somewhere worth staying. But you... you are my stone. My song. My forever place." She smiled — that maddening, beautiful, secret smile. "And I never knew stones could dance... until you tripped over every single one on your way to me." Laughter echoed through the clearing — loud, wild, utterly perfect. The Forest Rejoiced The celebration that followed was the stuff of legend. The rabbits organized an impromptu berry feast. The foxes provided slightly questionable musical entertainment (there was howling). The squirrels, begrudgingly, allowed dancing beneath their favorite trees. And the stars? Oh, the stars stayed out far later than usual — winking knowingly over two gnomes who had somehow turned awkward missteps and stolen glances into something breathtakingly permanent. And As The Night Faded... They sat together, tangled in each other, surrounded by stones and feathers and laughter that would echo in the woods for generations. "Home," he whispered into her hair. She nodded. "Always." And So Their Story Lives On... In the stones that hum when the wind passes through. In the feathers caught in the branches long after they’ve gone to bed. And in every ridiculous, wonderful, perfectly imperfect love story waiting to happen just beyond the trees.     Bring His Story Home Some stories aren’t just meant to be read — they’re meant to be lived with. He Who Walks with Wind carries with him a spirit of wild adventure, quiet romance, and the kind of humor only found in the heart of the woods. Now, you can bring his legendary presence into your space — a daily reminder that love, laughter, and a little bit of mischief belong in every corner of your life. Metal Print — Sleek, bold, and perfect for a space that echoes with adventure. Canvas Print — Rustic charm meets timeless storytelling for your walls. Tapestry — Let the wind tell his story across fabric flowing with forest magic. Fleece Blanket — Curl up in cozy folklore and daydream of distant woods. Throw Pillow — A soft landing for tired adventurers and dreamers alike. Every Piece Tells a Story Let his quiet strength, mischievous spirit, and legendary heart become part of your everyday world. Whether on your walls, your couch, or wrapped around your shoulders — his journey is ready to continue with you. Explore the Full Collection →     Let Her Quiet Magic Find You She Who Sings to Stones doesn’t shout her wisdom — she leaves it tucked in corners, resting on shelves, and humming softly beside you in moments of stillness. Her story is one of grace, patience, and secret strength — and now her spirit can dwell in your space in beautifully crafted ways. Acrylic Print — Sleek clarity capturing her timeless quiet beauty. Framed Print — A classic heirloom piece for a heart-centered home. Tote Bag — Carry her story with you — to markets, to forests, or wherever you wander. Greeting Card — Send a small, powerful blessing into someone else's world. Sticker — A tiny, mischievous reminder to listen for the quiet songs in life. Her Presence Lingers Long After the Song Whether decorating your favorite reading nook, becoming a cherished gift, or adding a whisper of magic to your day — her story is ready to walk beside yours. Explore the Full Collection →     Epilogue: And the Forest Just Kept Smiling Years later — deep in that same wild forest where it all began — they are still there. He Who Walks with Wind still gets lost on purpose sometimes. (Old habits, old boots.) He still carves her words into stones when he thinks she isn’t looking. And yes — he still sings badly to puddles on quiet mornings... because now she sings along. She Who Sings to Stones still listens for stories the wind forgets to tell. She still leaves him tiny gifts in strange places — feathers braided with wildflower threads tucked into his coat pocket, small heart-shaped stones placed along his wandering paths, notes scrawled with things like: "Don’t forget berries (Grumbletail is watching)." They built a home together — if you can call it that. Part cottage, part moss-covered miracle, part falling-apart-on-purpose. It smells of pine needles, old books, and laughter that never learned how to be quiet. The forest watches them — still — with that old, knowing smile. And the Animals? The squirrels still gossip (they always will). The owls still judge. The rabbits still host awkwardly loud dinners near their porch. But ask anyone — ask even the grumpiest badger — and they’ll tell you: This is how the best stories end. Not with grand adventures. Not with epic quests. But with two foolish souls who chose to stay — tangled together in feathers, stones, and all the wonderfully ordinary magic of forever. And Somewhere... Right Now... She’s humming. He’s tripping over a tree root. And the forest? Still smiling. Shop His Story → | Shop Her Story →

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Secret Life of a Dandelion

In a forgotten corner of a sunlit kitchen, where old wooden floorboards creaked like the sigh of memories, there sat a glass of water with a single dandelion seed head balanced inside. Its fragile white filaments shimmered faintly in the afternoon glow — a crown of wishes waiting for wind or wonder. But across from it — hanging slightly crooked on the wall — was a mirror. Not just any mirror, but one of those quiet, silver-framed relics from another era, the kind that felt heavier than its reflection, as though it remembered every gaze that had ever passed across it. And in this mirror, the dandelion was no longer a fragile thing clinging to what little time it had left. No — in the mirror’s world, the dandelion stood in full bloom, fierce and golden. A wild sun captured in petals. Bold where it had been delicate. Alive where it had seemed to be fading. It had always been this way. You see, mirrors — the real ones — don’t just show you what you are. They show you what you once dreamed of being. What you secretly still believe you could become. They show the hidden life humming inside quiet things. Day after day, the little seed head sat there, half-remembering how once, long ago, it had been golden too. When it had basked in fields uncut, standing tall against the breeze, unapologetic in its brightness. But time, as it does to all things, had softened it. Made it cautious. Fragile. Ready to let go rather than reach again. But this reflection — this impossible golden version of itself — had begun to whisper. Not with words. No, dandelions know better than that. With feeling. With quiet hope. With the restless ache of dreams deferred but never forgotten. And one night, long after the house had fallen silent, something extraordinary happened... Night of the Turning The house was asleep. Even the clock on the wall had quieted its ticking, as if time itself was holding its breath. The moon hung low, spilling silver across the wooden table where the dandelion sat — still, fragile, and impossibly aware of its own smallness. But the mirror had been waiting for this night. Some say mirrors lose their magic as we grow old. They say that reflections harden into truth and leave no space for dreams. But those people have never sat still enough — or long enough — to hear what mirrors whisper in the dark. “Remember,” the mirror hummed. Not in sound, but like a warm pressure just behind the bones of the chest. “Remember what it felt like... to be full of sun.” The dandelion quivered. Not from wind — there was none. But from something deeper. An ache. A pulse from long before it knew how to let go. The seed head trembled on its slender stem, brittle from waiting, from surviving. “You were never meant to stay small,” the mirror whispered. “You were never meant to fade quietly.” It was a ridiculous thought. The world had told the dandelion for weeks now — for seasons — that its time was over. That its beauty had passed. That its best chance was to scatter to the wind and hope to start over somewhere else. But not tonight. The Bloom Inside the Quiet Slowly, impossibly, the fragile threads of the seed head began to shimmer — not with light from the moon, but with something older. Something remembered. Hope is not loud. It is not the drumbeat of certainty or the blaze of guaranteed victory. Hope is quieter than breath. It is smaller than a seed. It is the ache of “maybe” in the chest when the world has said “no” for so long you almost believed it. And the dandelion — the small, forgotten, nearly gone dandelion — began to gather itself from the inside out. Not a transformation forced by magic or wishful thinking. No, this was the truest kind of change. The kind that grows in the dark. The kind that starts with belief. Petal by petal, color by color, the reflection was no longer only in the mirror. The golden bloom was rising from within. Not all at once. Not perfectly. But steadily. It wasn’t about being what it had been. It was about becoming what it still could be. Outside, the wind stirred — gentle, curious — brushing against the old wooden house like an old friend. And when dawn came, spilling gold across the floor, there sat the dandelion... no longer just a seed head. There it stood — quiet but fierce — crowned in golden bloom once more. Not because it had been forced. Not because someone had saved it. But because it remembered that dreams, like seeds, wait for the smallest crack of belief to bloom again. The Mirror's Secret And the mirror? Oh, the mirror simply smiled in its way. After all, that’s what it had been trying to tell the dandelion all along. Not all reflections are reminders of what we have lost. Some reflections are invitations to become.     Epilogue: For Those Who Wait Quietly Somewhere, perhaps in a kitchen much like yours, or on a windowsill nobody watches anymore, another dandelion waits. It waits with all its fragile parts — seeds that want to let go, roots that don’t remember how to stay, a heart grown tired of being told it is too late. But the mirror is still there. Somewhere. Everywhere. Waiting. Whispering. Not every bloom is for the wild fields. Not every golden crown rises in the open sun. Some are meant for quiet places. For still hearts. For those who have forgotten how bright they once burned. If you find yourself looking at your own reflection — in glass or water or memory — and all you see is what time has taken from you… Wait a little longer. There is a bloom inside you still. And some mornings — when the world holds its breath — even the smallest dream dares to rise again.     Bring the Story Home Every story deserves a place to live — even the quiet ones. The Secret Life of a Dandelion is more than just an image. It’s a reminder of what waits inside us all — of patience, resilience, and the quiet bravery of dreams not yet spoken. You can bring this story into your everyday world — as art, as gift, as a gentle nudge toward hope. Wood Prints — Rustic and timeless, perfect for quiet corners and thoughtful spaces. Metal Prints — Modern reflections that catch the light, much like the story itself. Tote Bags — Carry your dreams. Or your books. Or your quiet thoughts for the road. Greeting Cards — Share hope with someone who needs it most. Spiral Notebooks — Because stories — especially your own — deserve to be written down. Explore the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com. Let your space — or your gift — become part of the story.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Warden of the Arctic Heavens

The Legend Awakens High above the frozen world — somewhere between the last Wi-Fi signal and the first whisper of stardust — there lives a snow leopard unlike any other. Her name is Solvryn, though few mortals dare to utter it. Not because of fear — but because they usually can't pronounce it after three shots of glacial vodka. She is the Warden of the Arctic Heavens, the guardian of northern skies, and an unofficial therapist for lost souls who wander into her domain thinking it’s a great idea to "find themselves" in minus-40-degree weather. Solvryn wasn’t always celestial. She was once a regular snow leopard with killer instinct and an unhealthy obsession with napping on branches. But the universe has a wicked sense of humor. One night, as she lounged atop a frost-covered tree, watching the aurora ripple like cosmic mood lighting, a shooting star crashed — not with grace — but directly into her backside. Instead of instant vaporization (which frankly would have been easier), she sprouted wings. Feathery, luminous, ridiculous wings. Wings that ruined stealth hunting forever but made her look exceptionally photogenic on Instagram — if anyone ever made it up here alive with a signal. Of course, with wings came responsibility. An ancient voice boomed in her head, as all ancient voices do: "Rise, Solvryn, Warden of the Arctic Heavens. You must guard the northern skies, protect the balance of solitude and wonder, and occasionally knock sense into arrogant explorers who think the cold won't affect their phone batteries." And just like that, Solvryn began her eternal gig. She patrolled the winter realms, kept an eye on mischievous aurora spirits, and ensured the silence of snow remained unbroken — unless it was for a good laugh or an even better story. Still, on particularly long nights, she wondered: Was she destined for this forever? Was there more to being a guardian than frostbite prevention and dramatic wing poses? Little did she know, a challenge unlike any other was about to enter her territory — a wandering human with too much caffeine, zero common sense, and a destiny tied dangerously close to her own. The Human Problem The thing about humans is — they never read the signs. Not the cosmic ones. Not the wooden ones. Definitely not the ones with skull symbols and the words “TURN BACK” carved in twelve languages. Solvryn had seen them all. Mountain climbers powered by granola bars. Influencers searching for that “authentic wilderness aesthetic.” CEOs on a “spiritual retreat” hoping to expense enlightenment. But this one? This one was different. He tripped over his own snowshoes. He talked to himself — a lot. And worse, he argued with the Northern Lights like they were customer support. "Okay universe," he muttered loudly into the frozen air, "if you're listening, I could really use a sign that I'm not completely ruining my life." Solvryn, perched above him in full celestial glory, sighed the ancient sigh of a being who knows exactly what’s coming next. Because rules were rules. If a human asked for a sign — out loud — and they were within earshot of the Warden, she had to respond. She stretched her wings slowly, letting moonlight catch the edges just enough for maximum drama. She descended from her frosty perch with the casual elegance of a being who had absolutely had it with humanity’s nonsense. The man fell backwards into the snow, wide-eyed. "Holy — I knew this hike was a mistake." "Mistake?" Solvryn’s voice echoed through the trees — rich, smooth, slightly amused. "You walked twenty miles into the Arctic in discount hiking boots, armed only with optimism and protein bars. 'Mistake' is generous." The man blinked. "You... talk?" "Of course I talk. I’m not just here for the aesthetics." He scrambled to sit up, shivering, snow clinging to his beard like regret. "Are you... an angel? A spirit guide?" "Depends," Solvryn said, landing beside him with a soft crunch of snow. "Are you here to find inner peace, or did you just need a really aggressive life coach?" The Lesson No One Asked For Turns out, he was neither. His name was Eliot. A graphic designer from the city. Midlife crisis in progress. Divorced, burnt-out, spiritually empty — you know, the usual inspiration package. Solvryn listened — because wardens listen first, judge later. It’s more effective that way. He spoke of deadlines and loneliness. Of feeling invisible. Of scrolling through other people’s lives until his own felt like a poorly edited draft. And when he finally ran out of words — when the Arctic silence pressed against him like truth — Solvryn leaned in. "Listen closely, small warm-blooded disaster. The universe doesn’t care about your productivity metrics. It doesn’t reward suffering for suffering’s sake. But it does respond to courage — especially the courage to be still, to be quiet, to not know." Eliot stared up at her. "So… what? I should just… stop?" "No. You should begin — properly this time." The Guardian Code She unfurled her wings fully — a gesture both ridiculous and magnificent. Snowflakes glittered like tiny stars in the wake of her movement. "You want meaning? Make it. You want peace? Choose it. You want purpose? Earn it — not by running away from the noise, but by becoming immune to it." Eliot let the words settle like snowfall — slow, relentless, undeniable. Later, he would swear that the northern lights above them pulsed brighter, as if in approval. The Departure By dawn, Solvryn was gone — as guardians always are when their work is done. But Eliot — now guardian of his own story — walked back to civilization slower, lighter. He had no photos. No proof. No viral content. Only a strange feather tucked into his pocket — and a quiet, ferocious promise to live differently. The Arctic Whisper Far above, watching from her frozen branch, Solvryn chuckled quietly to herself. "Humans," she murmured. "So fragile. So lost. So gloriously capable of change." And with a powerful beat of her wings, the Warden of the Arctic Heavens soared into the endless blue — her watch never truly over.     Bring the Legend Home If Solvryn, the Warden of the Arctic Heavens, stirred something wild and wondrous in your soul — why not bring a piece of her mythic world into your own? Explore our exclusive collection of Warden of the Arctic Heavens art pieces — crafted for dreamers, wanderers, and guardians of their own quiet moments. Each item is designed to transform your space into a place of reflection, inspiration, and maybe — just maybe — a little magic. Woven Tapestry — Let Solvryn guard your walls in soft, textured beauty. Metal Print — Bold. Modern. Ready to outshine your neighbor's art collection. Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in celestial comfort. Approved for late-night existential pondering. Canvas Print — Classic. Elegant. Timeless as a winter sky. Let the legend live on — in your home, your story, your space.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Mushroom Mirth in Hedgehog Daze

The Prickle Awakens Deep in the glimmer-soaked underbrush of the Wobblewood Forest — where the mushrooms glow like disco balls and the trees hum vaporwave melodies after dark — there lived a hedgehog named Fuzzwort. Now Fuzzwort wasn’t your average forest critter. Oh no. This hedgehog had been sampling the mysterious mushroom caps of Wobblewood for, well... let’s just say "a long time" and leave it there. One particularly hazy afternoon, Fuzzwort awoke nestled between two bioluminescent toadstools, blinking his enormous cosmic-blue eyes — pupils dialed all the way out like saucers floating in space. "Whoa," he mumbled to no one. "Either I’m awake... or the forest downloaded a new skin pack." Stretching his tiny paws, he realized that sometime during the night, his quills had absorbed some of the psychedelic mushroom spores. They glimmered in swirly rainbow hues. "Wicked fashion upgrade," he giggled. "I am... Hedgehype Supreme." The Quest for the Crunchy Munchies His belly rumbled — not like a regular hungry noise — but like a tiny drum circle of woodland gnomes playing the bongos inside him. He needed snacks. Immediately. Preferably crunchy. Preferably within crawling distance because moving was, frankly, a negotiation right now. Slowly rolling himself into a little spiky ball, Fuzzwort tumbled downhill like a sentient mossy bowling ball. Mushrooms blurred past him in fractal patterns. He muttered, "Bro... trees shouldn’t have that many elbows." He bounced to a stop near a peculiar gathering of mushrooms. These weren’t just glowing — they were vibrating. "Ayy, what’s up, shroom bros?" he whispered reverently. They pulsed in response like they were beatboxing in slow motion. The Council of Shrooms A booming, spongy voice echoed in his head. "Fuzzwort... why dost thou rolleth so recklessly through our fungal fellowship?" Startled but still impressively chill, Fuzzwort replied, "Sorry, my dudes. I'm on a vision quest for some crunchy snacks. Also, I think my spine is growing tiny neon forests. Not complaining." The mushrooms collectively shimmied. "Seek ye the Snackshroom Grove," the voice replied. "But beware... it is guarded by the Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes." "Heavy," Fuzzwort whispered, nodding solemnly. "Respect." Snackshroom Grove and the Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes Fuzzwort rolled onward, carried by the subtle gravity of a snack-craving heart. The Wobblewood Forest grew increasingly surreal — the trees stretched sideways like rubber bands warming up for interpretive dance, while the moss whispered ancient limericks only slightly inappropriate for polite company. In the shimmering distance, beneath a canopy of glitter-dripping vines, the legendary Snackshroom Grove pulsed like the heartbeat of a funky bassline only forest creatures could hear. But standing between him and crispy victory... was him. Enter: The Lich Lizard of Eternal Vibes The creature slithered out from behind a kaleidoscope bush, scales glistening like oil spills on velvet. Wearing oversized sunglasses (indoors, naturally), the Lich Lizard exhaled a glowing cloud of sage-scented mystery and addressed Fuzzwort in a voice smooth as melted marshmallows. "Whoooo dares enter Snackshroom Grove... whilst rocking bioluminescent drip that sick?" Fuzzwort froze. Not from fear. No. From sheer admiration. "Whoa," he breathed. "Your vibes... they're... immaculate." The Lich Lizard did a slow-motion spin. "You're not so bad yourself, little orb of chaos. But the path to Snackshroom Grove is no free buffet." The Ritual of Chill Challenges The Lich Lizard gestured to a circle of vibrating stones. "To earn access to the sacred Crunchies, you must pass... The Trials of Chill." Fuzzwort nodded, feeling fate coil like a slinky in his gut. Trial One: The Dance-Off of Wiggly PrecisionHe had to out-wiggle a group of glow-worms synchronized like a K-pop flash mob. Fuzzwort summoned his inner disco hedgehog. Quills shimmering, feet barely obeying him, he spun in lazy circles that accidentally formed the shape of a cosmic fractal. The worms collapsed in awe. Pass. Trial Two: The Riddle of the Perpetually Confused SquirrelA squirrel hopped forward, eyes wide, holding an acorn that vibrated ominously. "If a mushroom falls in the woods but everyone's too baked to hear it... did it even drop?"Fuzzwort blinked, considered the eternal mystery, then replied, "Bro... maybe we’re the mushrooms."Silence. Then the squirrel gave him a tiny acorn fist-bump. Pass. Trial Three: The Patience of Eternal ChillHe had to sit perfectly still while a snail told its entire life story. It took three hours. It was... mostly about lettuce.Fuzzwort never flinched. Inner peace achieved. Pass. Snackshroom Grove Unlocked The Lich Lizard gave him a slow clap that echoed like tree trunks applauding in the wind. "Respect. Enter, young fuzzball." Fuzzwort stumbled into Snackshroom Grove and immediately lost all sense of linear time. The air was thick with the scent of earthy goodness. Mushrooms shaped like nacho chips. Tiny fungi that crunched like kettle-cooked potato magic. A bubbling brook flowing with chilled mushroom tea. He feasted. Oh, did he feast. After what felt like decades (but was probably 17 minutes), Fuzzwort lay on his back, belly round, paws behind his head, staring at the cosmic swirl of colors above. The Lesson of the Day The Lich Lizard materialized beside him, reclining effortlessly. "So, what did you learn today, little wanderer?" Fuzzwort squinted, thinking deeply. "That... snacks taste better when you've vibed with weird forest dudes and survived existential riddles from stoner squirrels." The Lich Lizard nodded solemnly. "Truest thing I've heard all century." Epilogue: The Return to Wobblewood Eventually, Fuzzwort rolled himself back toward his cozy patch of moss beneath the disco trees. Behind him, the Snackshroom Grove pulsed gently — always there for the next adventurer with a crunchy dream and an open heart. He whispered to the sky, "Stay weird, forest. Stay weird." THE END Or is it...?     Bring the Vibes Home Can't get enough of Fuzzwort's whimsical wanderings through Wobblewood? Now you can bring a piece of the Mushroom Mirth magic into your own space. Whether you're decking out your chill zone or gifting some forest-fueled joy, check out our Canvas Prints and Metal Prints for bold, vibrant wall art straight from Wobblewood itself. Feeling crafty? Stitch your own adventure with our Cross-Stitch Pattern, perfect for slow, mindful creating — just like Fuzzwort would want. Need something cozy to curl up with during your next snack quest? Grab a super-soft Throw Pillow, or pack your favorite crunchy finds in a magical Tote Bag. Shop the whole collection: Mushroom Mirth in Hedgehog Daze Product Line Stay weird. Stay wonderful. Stay unfocussed.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Glimpses of Gaia

The Eye in the Forest It began, as all ridiculous yet profound things do, with a terrible idea born from excellent wine. Somewhere deep in the tangled emerald forests of the forgotten world, an eccentric old monk named Tenzo Featherbeard was determined to find what the locals only whispered about: The Eye of Gaia. "It sees through all things," the innkeeper had warned, polishing his wooden mug with the reverence usually reserved for cathedrals or particularly stubborn goats. "Not just the skin of things... but their intentions." Tenzo, of course, took that as a challenge. Days turned to weeks. He wandered past glowing mushrooms that offered unsolicited advice. He stepped over meditating frogs so enlightened they levitated mid-ribbit. The forest was alive in a way that made him feel perpetually underdressed — emotionally, spiritually, and sartorially. Then one night, beneath a sky so full of stars it looked like spilled sugar, he found it. Embedded in the bark of an ancient tree was an enormous eye — scales like sapphire armor surrounding a hypnotic iris of burning gold and shifting emerald. The lashes were delicate vines tipped with bioluminescent petals. It blinked — not with hostility, but with... curiosity? Tenzo, being Tenzo, bowed dramatically and said, "Hello, you luminous ocular enigma. Care for a conversation?" The forest held its breath. Then — from deep within the roots and leaves — came the warm, velvet voice of Gaia herself: "Human. Why do you seek me?" Without hesitation — and still slightly drunk on the fermented sap of a mischievous tree — Tenzo replied: "Because I’ve lost my socks. And possibly, myself." Gaia laughed — a sound like rivers learning to giggle. The eye sparkled with cosmic amusement. "Sit, monk. Let us speak of lost things." And so he sat — cross-legged upon a mossy stone shaped suspiciously like a buttock — ready to hear truths he would likely misunderstand in the most beautiful way possible. Conversations with an Ancient Eye For what may have been hours, days, or several reincarnations of the same particularly stubborn beetle, Tenzo sat before the Eye of Gaia, basking in its strange warmth — like the feeling of sunlight filtered through an old library window, dust motes included. Gaia spoke again — her voice now slower, thicker — as if poured from an ancient teapot rarely used except for very important guests or bewildered monks: "Human. Tell me of these... socks." Tenzo sighed. "They were soft. Very soft. Handmade from the wool of a laughing mountain goat. Lost them during a bout of contemplative streaking after my enlightenment practice went sideways." The eye blinked slowly. "Ah. Attachment." "Also," Tenzo added with the gravity of a man truly pondering the universe, "they matched." The forest hummed with gentle laughter. Leaves quivered. A nearby caterpillar paused mid-transformation just to listen. The Teachings Begin (Sort of) "Human," Gaia intoned, "All things are lost eventually. Socks. Ego. Even planets. What matters is not possession... but presence." Tenzo scratched his beard thoughtfully. "So you're saying... I should go barefoot forever?" "No," she replied, "I'm saying that seeking what is lost externally often blinds one to what is already found internally." Tenzo considered this deeply, as deeply as one can while a squirrel braids your hair uninvited. The Eye Shows Him the Way Without warning, the eye dilated — rippling outward in honeycomb fractals of glowing color — pulling Tenzo into a vision. He saw himself — old, wrinkled, absurdly content — sitting on a mountain peak wearing no socks, but smiling so fully that even the wind paused to admire it. He saw villages thriving because he shared laughter instead of wisdom. He saw forests blooming because he sang off-key to them nightly. He saw lovers, friends, strangers — all touched by the presence of a foolish, barefoot monk who once lost his socks but found himself utterly... here. The Return When he awoke, the Eye of Gaia shimmered with approval. "So," Tenzo said, standing on impossibly clean forest moss, "What you're saying is... the socks were never the point." "Precisely." He bowed low. "Can I ask one last question?" "Ask." "Where the hell am I going to get more goat-wool socks? Winter is coming." The forest roared with laughter. Trees shook. Petals fell like confetti. Even the stone beneath him pulsed as if giggling. And then — just as the first morning light crested the treetops — a small, neatly wrapped bundle fell from a high branch onto his head. Inside? The softest, warmest, utterly mismatched pair of socks he had ever seen — woven from the fibers of forest dreams themselves. Epilogue: The Way Forward Tenzo Featherbeard left the forest that day not as a man who had lost something — but as one who realized everything worth having was already walking with him. His legend spread — not because he found the Eye of Gaia — but because he listened, laughed, and never took himself too seriously again. Years later, people still speak of him as the barefoot sage with mismatched socks — who taught the world that sometimes the universe gives you what you need... the moment you stop demanding it look the way you expected. And the Eye? It still watches — waiting patiently for the next fool wise enough to be ridiculous.     Bring a Glimpse of Gaia Home Perhaps, like Tenzo, you've found yourself wandering — seeking signs, symbols, or maybe just a really good pair of socks. While the forest may keep its secrets, the magic of this story lives on beyond the trees. Inspired by the very vision Tenzo discovered, you can carry your own piece of Gaia's wonder into your daily life: Metal Prints — Bold, luminous, and ready to hang in your sacred space. Acrylic Prints — For those who see clearly even when reality bends a little. Tote Bags — Because wisdom (and snacks) should travel well. Round Beach Towels — Perfect for meditation, storytelling, or sand-covered enlightenment. Cross-Stitch Pattern — For creators who know every stitch is a mantra. Every piece is a glimpse, a reminder, a quiet nudge from Gaia herself: Be present. Laugh often. Lose your socks. Find yourself.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Aubade in the Enchanted Forest

The first light of dawn shimmered through the whispering canopy of the Enchanted Forest. The trees — ancient sentinels with leaves like stained glass — cast a kaleidoscope of colors over the soft, moss-laden earth. There was a stillness in the air, the kind only found at the fragile seam between night’s last breath and day’s first awakening. She was called Liora — a wanderer, a listener, a quiet soul in search of nothing but presence itself. Her long dress of woven silk, kissed by the hues of wildflowers and moonlit streams, trailed behind her like a river of forgotten dreams. The path beneath her bare feet wasn’t marked by signs or boundaries; it formed gently as she moved — conjured by intention, not direction. The forest greeted her not with sound, but with feeling — the hum of ancient roots intertwined beneath the earth, the scent of warm cedar and soft blooms unfurling to the sky, the faint pulse of life both hidden and omnipresent. Even the stones beneath her steps seemed to release their breath after a thousand years of patient waiting. Liora walked slowly, as if time itself had loosened its grip on her. Every step was deliberate, an offering of stillness to a world overwhelmed by noise. She paused often — to touch the velvet petals of unfamiliar flowers, to trace the grooves of bark older than memory, to feel the cool pulse of stones nestled like sleeping hearts among the moss. It was here — in the sacred hush of the forest — that serenity did not need to be chased. It waited, quietly, for those willing to slow down enough to meet it. Liora was one of the few who knew this. The Aubade Garden At the heart of the forest, beyond a gentle curve in the path, there lay the Aubade Garden — a hidden grove bathed in soft morning light, where spherical blooms of impossible colors blanketed the ground like a dream made real. It was said that those who reached the Aubade Garden were granted not wishes — but clarity. Clarity not of answers — but of questions. Liora stepped into the clearing. Her breath caught — not in awe, but in gratitude. The garden was untouched by human desire. It was not meant to be conquered or consumed. It was simply to be shared — for as long as one's heart could stay quiet enough to listen. The trees stood tall around her, their trunks rising like pillars in a temple built by time. Above her, the sun’s first golden rays poured through the canopy, igniting the blossoms beneath her feet. It was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was — simply — a beginning. And so Liora sat, folding herself gently into the earth, her dress spreading like a second layer of petals across the enchanted floor. She closed her eyes. The forest breathed with her. Here, there were no lessons. No declarations. Only being. And in the stillness — she waited for the dawn’s full embrace. The Silent Dialogue Time, in the Aubade Garden, dissolved into something softer — something that did not measure itself in hours or minutes, but in the rhythms of breath and the slow unfolding of petals. Liora did not need to name this feeling. It was beyond words, woven into the very bones of the forest itself. As she sat in stillness, an invisible dialogue began between herself and the world around her. Not a conversation of speech — but of exchange. She gave her presence freely, without expectation. In return, the forest offered its secrets — delicate, quiet gifts unnoticed by those who rushed through life’s corridors. Over time, a warmth settled into her chest. Not a fiery blaze — but a gentle ember, steady and grounding. She could feel the pulse of roots beneath her, tracing their way like forgotten rivers beneath the surface of the earth. Every tree, every flower, every stone — was part of the same breath. It occurred to her that serenity was not absence — not the escape from life — but a fuller presence within it. The forest did not deny sorrow, nor did it pretend away hardship. It held space for all things — joy and grief, light and shadow — without judgment. And in doing so, it healed without effort. The Arrival of the Sun The first true rays of the morning sun crept across the treetops, cascading downward like golden silk. The spheres of color surrounding her began to glow, not with an unnatural light, but as if reflecting an inner luminescence — the quiet radiance of existence itself. Birdsong arrived — not hurried or loud — but as a gentle greeting. Each note a thread in a larger tapestry of sound. The breeze, playful yet respectful, tugged softly at her hair, carrying with it the scent of distant rain and blooming earth. Liora opened her eyes slowly. Nothing had changed — and yet everything had shifted. The forest was the same. She was the same. But within her was a clarity that words could not shape. A knowing that she belonged here — as she belonged everywhere — not as a conqueror or an intruder, but as a quiet witness to the world's unfolding beauty. The Path Forward She rose without rush. Her dress shimmered, catching the morning light like woven dawn. As she stepped forward, the ground responded — the path blooming anew beneath her feet, soft petals unfurling to mark her journey without disturbing the living tapestry around her. The way home was not marked by signs or stones. It was marked only by trust — trust in the world’s quiet rhythms, trust in her own heart's ability to listen. The Aubade Garden faded behind her — not in distance, but in presence — a sacred place that required nothing but remembrance to revisit. And so she walked — not away, but forward — carrying with her the serenity of the Enchanted Forest. The calm did not remain behind her; it lived within her now, a quiet companion through all the noise of the outside world.     Epilogue: The Forest Beyond the Forest Long after her footsteps had faded from the moss-laden paths, the Enchanted Forest remained — untouched, eternal, quietly alive. It asked for no memory. It required no proof. Those who had truly been there carried its essence not in photographs or souvenirs — but in the softened edges of their lives. For Liora, the forest had never been left behind. It echoed in the way she touched the world — in her patient gaze, in the unhurried grace of her movements, in the gentle silences she allowed to bloom between words. Sometimes — in quiet moments — she would pause wherever she was: beneath a city tree, on a sunlit balcony, or beside a river flowing through unfamiliar lands. And she would feel it again — that subtle hum beneath all things. The forest within the forest. The garden beyond the garden. And perhaps that was the truest magic of all — that serenity was not a place to find, but a way to be. A living, breathing aubade — offered again and again to the waking world, for anyone willing to listen.     Bring the Serenity Home The quiet calm of the Enchanted Forest need not stay within the pages of a story. For those wishing to carry its stillness into their daily spaces, curated creations inspired by Aubade in the Enchanted Forest are available — crafted to transform your home into a reflection of tranquility and wonder. Wrap yourself in softness, surround your space with vivid colors, or bring moments of mindful creativity into your day — all while supporting the artistry of Bill & Linda Tiepelman. Wall Tapestry — Let the forest bloom across your walls. Metal Print — Vibrant, enduring reflections of the enchanted grove. Throw Pillow — A soft place to rest, inspired by forest calm. Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in warmth and wonder. Cross-Stitch Pattern — A meditative creation of the forest's beauty by your own hand. Let the story live with you — not just in memory, but in the peaceful presence of your home.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Arboreal Symphony in Fractal Major

The roots hummed long before she heard them. Deep beneath the woven surface of existence, the Tree of Resonance was never silent. It pulsed — slowly — with tones beyond human frequency, casting fractal harmonics into the soul of the earth. Lyra stepped barefoot onto the veined carpet of spiraling color. She was not here to conquer, to pluck wisdom like fruit, or to carve her name into ancient bark. She came only to listen. The landscape unfolded in spiraled fractals of luminous vines and coiling roots, their forms impossibly organic yet touched with mathematical precision. Every twist and curve felt deliberate — as if designed by nature and music in secret collaboration. The Breath of the Tree Standing before the impossibly vibrant trunk, Lyra closed her eyes. She could feel the slow inhalation of the Arboreal Giant — not through lungs — but through an ancient rhythm woven into the core of existence. A pulse synchronized with tides, seasons, breath itself. Here, silence wasn’t empty. It was full. It draped around her shoulders like a cloak of invisible threads, connecting her to every rooted tendril beneath her feet, every distant bough above, unfurling into a sky woven from gradients of light. Her thoughts began to dissolve, not into nothingness — but into everything. The concept of separation softened. She was the tree. The tree was her. The infinite dance of roots and branches mirrored her own inner labyrinth of memory, emotion, and longing. Resonance and Release The Arboreal Symphony required no audience, but welcomed all. It had sung before language. Before gods. Before stars knew their names. And here, within its embrace, Lyra could feel the residue of countless souls who had stood where she stood — seekers, wanderers, the lost and the found. Colors shifted with intention. Blues softened into greens, greens ignited into fire-warm gold. The roots at her feet spiraled outward — not to possess, but to guide. They showed her paths she had forgotten existed — internal paths. Emotional rivers buried beneath layers of noise and duty. And so she breathed — not with lungs, but with being. She became rhythm. She became stillness. The tree did not heal her because she was never broken. It simply reminded her of the shape of her own song, lost beneath the static of a too-loud world. A Pause Before Descent As the sun’s fractal light bent and refracted across the infinite leaves, Lyra smiled with no reason beyond presence itself. She would descend soon, return to the world of movement and memory. But not yet. For now, she remained part of the Arboreal Symphony — a singular note in a melody older than time — held gently in the arms of fractal infinity. Descent into the Roots When Lyra moved again, it was without urgency. The tree had shifted around her. Not physically — the roots and branches remained — but perception had altered. What was once external was now a mirror. Every spiral of color beneath her bare feet echoed with her own pulse. She walked toward the base of the tree, its roots parting not in invitation, but in quiet acknowledgment. There was no gatekeeper here. No threshold guarded by ritual or code. The only key was presence. The only cost was time surrendered to stillness. The roots formed passages — arched like cathedrals, carved not by tools, but by patient growth and ancient will. Fractal patterns of light streamed through porous surfaces, cascading in hues that defied earthly language: azure that whispered memory, crimson that pulsed with forgotten names, golden light spun from the laughter of leaves. The Chamber of Echoes Lyra found herself in a hollow — vast, but intimate. At its center pulsed the Heart Root — not a beating organ, but a luminous braid of energy weaving through the earth and sky. Its sound was not heard but felt, vibrating in the bones, in the blood, in the spaces between atoms. She sat upon smooth spirals of coiled wood, letting her fingers drift through tendrils of luminous moss. There were no instructions. No expectations. Only resonance. Here she remembered. Not memories tied to narrative — not stories of who she had been — but memories older than thought. The memory of wind against newborn skin. The memory of sun-warmed stones beneath childhood feet. The memory of tears without sorrow. Laughter without reason. Integration When Lyra rose — hours or years later, time meaningless in the tree's embrace — she was not changed. She was revealed. Layers of false weight dissolved, leaving only clarity. The fractal pathways led her upward — not out — but through. Every step traced with light. Every breath a return. She emerged beneath the tree's infinite crown as night fell, the sky strewn with stars that felt impossibly close, as if she could reach up and trace their edges with her fingertips. The Symphony continued — unbroken, unending — and Lyra carried its melody within her. Not as a possession, but as a remembering. A knowing that would hum beneath her every step, her every word, long after she left this place of luminous roots and infinite branches. Stillness in Motion As she walked away, the landscape did not fade — it folded into her. The fractal tree receded not because it vanished, but because it was everywhere. Beneath stone. Beneath city. Beneath skin. It was not a place she would return to — because it had never been separate. Lyra was not the same. But she had always been whole.     Epilogue: The Quiet Between Moments Long after Lyra returned to the weaving patterns of human life — the soft hum of conversation, the brittle glow of city lights, the pull of tasks and time — the Symphony remained. It whispered in pauses. In the steam curling from morning tea. In the hush of twilight when shadows lengthened like memories returning home. In the subtle ache behind the heart when longing stirred without name or reason. The Tree of Resonance was not a distant wonder buried in a forgotten forest. It was the architecture of stillness — a map etched in the marrow of all things. Every street corner, every crowded room, every moment of solitude held its rhythm if one only listened. And so Lyra did. She became the listener. The walker-between. The weaver of quiet threads invisible to the hurried eye. Not seeking answers. Not chasing peace. But living as melody — presence unfolding note by note — in the infinite Arboreal Symphony that never truly ended.     Bring the Symphony Into Your Space The Arboreal Symphony does not belong to a distant realm alone — it can live with you, woven into the quiet spaces of your home, reminding you of stillness, connection, and wonder. Explore inspired creations featuring the vibrant fractal essence of Arboreal Symphony in Fractal Major — available in artful and functional forms to infuse your surroundings with calm and color: Cross Stitch Pattern — Craft your own reflection of the Symphony Tapestry — A wall-hung canvas of fractal serenity Canvas Print — Art for meditative spaces Fleece Blanket — Wrap yourself in color and calm Bath Towel — Everyday moments infused with vibrant energy Let the Symphony accompany you — as art, as comfort, as a gentle reminder that connection and beauty live not only in faraway places, but right here, within reach.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Squirrely Monroe

The Rise of a Forest Icon Long before the world knew her as Squirrely Monroe, she was just another bushy-tailed dreamer from the oak-lined backstreets of Central Park. Born in a hollowed-out tree with bad insulation and worse neighbors (woodpeckers, of course), little Norma Nutbaker had one dream — to be seen. Other squirrels were content chasing acorns and dodging cyclists. But not her. Not Norma. She practiced strutting along fallen branches like a catwalk. She nibbled seductively on pinecones. She whispered her famous line into the wind every night: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." The City That Never Sleeps (Because of Raccoons) By the time she was two (about 20 in squirrel years), she hit the underground scene — quite literally. The storm drain scene. Central Park's secret nightlife thrived beneath the grates. There were jazz mice. Dancing possums. And if you were lucky? You might catch a glimpse of Norma's famous tail swirl — the twirl that would later grace murals on tree trunks everywhere. But fame has a way of finding those who shine hardest. One breezy autumn afternoon, while foraging near 5th Avenue, she stumbled upon the moment that would define her forever... The Breeze Heard 'Round the Park She stood above a subway grate. It hummed below her like the purr of a big city engine. And then — whooooooosh — the wind caught her simple little leaf-sewn dress, sending it billowing skyward in a scandalous flurry of forest fashion. A passing pigeon paparazzi captured the moment. Within hours, she wasn’t Norma Nutbaker anymore. She Was Squirrely Monroe. Forest creatures whispered about it over mushroom cappuccinos. Raccoons tried to imitate it (poorly). And chipmunks... well, they blushed just thinking about it. But fame is never just fun and acorns, darling. Behind the glamour... was a squirrel still searching for something more. Fame, Fur, and Forbidden Nuts The High Life in the Tall Trees Overnight, Squirrely Monroe became the name whispered across the treetops. She graced the covers of every leaf-laminated magazine from Acorn Vogue to Squirrel Illustrated. Her signature look? Soft platinum fur curls (styled with dew from rare morning grass) and that windswept leaf dress — now sold in boutique burrows at frankly scandalous markups. But forest fame came at a cost. Every twig-snapping paparazzi raccoon wanted a piece of her. Even worse? Her love life became headline fodder. Enter: Reynard Fox — The Scandal of the Season Reynard was trouble. A red-furred indie actor from the West Woods. Known for his smoldering eyes, questionable poetry, and tragic allergy to beechnuts. The tabloids went wild: "SQUIRRELY FALLS FOR BAD BOY FOX — WILL IT LAST?" It didn’t. Reynard was seen one night slipping into The Burrow Room — an exclusive underground club for forest elite — with a rival socialite: Trixie Chipmint, heiress to the Minted Nut fortune. Squirrely was devastated. Heartbroken. The forest stood still. The Comeback of a Lifetime But if the world thought Squirrely Monroe would vanish quietly into the hollow... they didn’t know her at all. She retreated deep into Central Park — to a forgotten maple grove where the wind blew wild and free. There, she crafted her masterpiece performance: a one-squirrel stage show titled "Nutting Like A Woman" — a raw, funny, painfully honest story of love, fame, and survival in a world that only saw the tail, not the heart. The premiere? Legendary. Critics declared it: "A triumph of fur, fashion, and vulnerability." Her Final Bow (For Now) Today, Squirrely Monroe lives a quieter life — at least by squirrel standards. She hosts late-night fireside interviews for Nutflix, mentors young chipmunk actresses, and occasionally reenacts the pose — leaf dress swirling — for charity fundraisers benefiting displaced urban wildlife. But if you wander Central Park late at night... and listen carefully beneath the hum of the city’s heartbeat... You might just hear her famous line float through the trees: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." And somewhere, a squirrel dreams of being seen — just like she once did.     Epilogue: The Wind Still Remembers Her Years have passed. The city grows louder. The trees thinner. The grates rust over with time and footsteps forgotten. But not her. Every once in a while — on a warm summer night when the subway hums beneath the streets and the breeze rises just right — there’s a rustle above Central Park’s oldest grate. Some say it’s the wind. Some say it’s legend. But those who know? They pause. They smile. And they whisper to the night air: "Goodnight, Squirrely Monroe." Because icons never really leave us. They just become part of the stories we tell... when the wind feels just a little more glamorous.     Bring a Little Squirrely Monroe Home Love a little glam with your wild side? Take a piece of forest fame home with you. The iconic moment that made Squirrely Monroe a legend is now available as stunning wall art, cheeky accessories, and collector-worthy keepsakes. Canvas Prints — Bold, beautiful, and ready to steal the spotlight on your wall. Framed Prints — Classy enough for the burrow or the boardroom. Tote Bags — For carrying nuts, secrets, or just a whole lot of style. Stickers — Tiny, sassy, and ready to adorn your world one acorn at a time. Because glamour never really goes out of style — it just grows fluffier.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Sunset Whiskers of Joy

The Roar Before the Nap There once was a tiger cub named Kip. Not King Kip. Not Sir Kip. Just... Kip. And Kip had opinions. About everything. The jungle, for starters, was absolutely not up to his standards. "Too pokey," he would complain, tripping dramatically over a vine. "Too loud," he grumbled at the squawking parrots like a tiny, judgmental old man. And the sun? Oh, the sun was personally trying to ruin his life. "Rude," he declared every morning when it dared to rise directly into his sleepy eyes. But tonight — oh, tonight was different. The sunset was a warm golden hug across the treetops. Kip could feel it. Something was building. Energy. Mischief. Drama. The world, for one shining moment, was about to revolve around him — and honestly, about time. With a wobbly little stretch of his fuzzy arms, Kip stood up on his hind legs. He wasn’t exactly built for this. Tiny paws wiggled in the air like confused baby stars. His tail flicked like a metronome set to 'sass.' "Look at me!" Kip roared — which, to anyone else, sounded a lot like an aggressive sneeze mixed with a hiccup. "I AM THE JOY. I AM THE SUNSET. I AM... HUNGRY." But there was no stopping him now. He squeezed his little eyes shut in absolute, dramatic glee. A grin stretched across his face like a stripe of moonlight. Tongue out. Teeth sharp. Tiny bean-paw pads flexed with raw, feral delight. Somewhere, a very serious owl judged him from a tree branch. But Kip didn’t care. He was, for this one perfect moment, the undisputed king of nonsense. The wild prince of sunset silliness. And absolutely, positively... ready to cause problems on purpose. And maybe... just maybe... ready for a snack. The Snack Attack Chronicles Kip had peaked. He knew it. There he stood — still awkwardly on his hind legs like some unholy mix of majestic jungle predator and undercooked breadstick — bathed in sunset glory. Oh, the drama. The pageantry. The glow of absolute nonsense radiating off his fur like he was the headline act in nature’s most unhinged musical. But reality, as it often does, came clawing back with one simple, inconvenient truth. "Snack. Need snack. Must acquire snack," Kip whispered with the raw intensity of someone who had once tried to eat a decorative rock out of boredom. (It had not gone well. He still wasn’t over it.) The problem was... the jungle was being difficult again. Everything edible was either too fast, too spiky, or — in one outrageous case — capable of biting back. Kip had opinions about that too. "If snacks don’t want to be eaten," he grumbled to himself, stomping in a very non-threatening way, "then maybe they should stop looking like snacks. Rude." He slumped dramatically into a patch of soft moss, sighing the sigh of someone who was absolutely starving despite eating six lizards and half a papaya earlier. His tiny tiger belly gurgled in betrayal. "Unbelievable. This is a crisis." And that’s when it happened. Rustle. Rustle. CRUNCH. Kip’s ears perked up so fast they practically levitated. His entire body tensed like a wound-up spring of fluffy disaster. His inner monologue hit maximum overthink: Is that food? Is that dangerous food? Is it snack-shaped? Snack-adjacent? Snack-adjacent-with-fangs? Do I care? No. He launched himself — with all the grace of a wet sock — directly into the bushes. What he found there would change the trajectory of his evening forever. It was not a snake. Not a lizard. Not even a stray jungle fruit (which, to be honest, were becoming a little tedious anyway). It was... a troop of tiny, wide-eyed monkeys. And they were eating — wait for it — cookies. Jungle cookies. The good kind. Sweet, sticky, questionably sourced, possibly stolen from some absent-minded forest traveler. Kip could barely handle it. His brain short-circuited. I want it. One of the monkeys noticed him. It paused mid-bite. A single crumb fell in slow motion. For a heartbeat, the whole jungle held its breath. Kip did not. "HELLO YES IT IS I," he announced in full uninvited-main-character mode. "I WILL BE TAKING YOUR COOKIES NOW. THANK YOU FOR YOUR SERVICE." The monkeys blinked. Kip blinked. No one moved. Then — utter chaos. Monkeys scattered like confetti at a party he wasn’t technically invited to (but absolutely considered himself the guest of honor). Kip, driven by sugar-lust and absolute goblin energy, gave chase. He zigged. He zagged. He rolled dramatically down a small hill because apparently his legs had never done cardio before. But in the end — oh, the glorious end — a single, sticky cookie was left behind. Forgotten. Abandoned. His prize. He pounced. Victory tasted like questionable jungle molasses and adventure. Also, dirt. But mostly victory. With a self-satisfied flop onto his back, Kip cradled the cookie between his tiny paws, sighing deeply like a creature who had just survived a great battle — against himself, mostly. The sun dipped below the trees. The sky melted into purples and golds. The jungle exhaled. And Kip, the bratty, chaotic, ridiculous little prince of his own nonsense universe, whispered to no one in particular: "I am the joy. I am the sunset. I am... absolutely not sharing." And for once — no one argued.     Epilogue: His Royal Crumbliness Later — much later — long after the sunset had melted into twilight and the jungle was whispering its nighttime secrets, Kip was still awake. He was lying belly-up in a soft nest of moss, paws splayed, crumbs everywhere. Cookie crumbs in his whiskers. Cookie crumbs in his ear fluff. Cookie crumbs in places cookie crumbs simply should not be. Did he regret anything? Absolutely not. Was he mildly stuck to the moss like a forgotten jungle marshmallow? ...Also yes. But that was future Kip’s problem. Present Kip was far too pleased with himself to care. He gazed lazily at the stars poking through the canopy, imagining — with the full delusional confidence only a baby tiger can possess — that they were twinkling just for him. "Royalty," he whispered smugly to a particularly judgmental cricket nearby. "Absolute royalty." The cricket did not reply. Somewhere in the distance, the monkey troop plotted cookie security upgrades. Somewhere else, the serious owl shook its head and muttered something about "today’s youth." But Kip? Kip smiled in his sleep, his tiny tail twitching in dreams of snacks, sunsets, and being exactly — gloriously — too much. Long may he reign.     Bring Kip's Joy Into Your World If Kip’s wild little adventure made you grin (or if you, too, have a chaotic snack-loving spirit), you can bring a piece of his sunset joy into your space. Sunset Whiskers of Joy by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a range of stunning products — perfect for gifting, decorating, or just treating yourself to a little everyday magic. Soft Tapestries — Wrap your walls (or yourself) in Kip’s golden glow. Metal Prints — For bold spaces that deserve a bold little tiger prince. Fleece Blankets — Maximum cozy. Maximum Kip energy. Bath Towels — Because why shouldn’t your towel be as dramatic as you? Greeting Cards — Share a little joy (or sass) with someone who needs it. Shop the full collection and bring Kip’s cheeky little roar into your world: View All Sunset Whiskers of Joy Products.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Midnight Clutch

The Transaction It started with a bet—because it always does. A bar too loud for conscience and too dim for decency, a stranger in a velvet hood, and a wager scribbled on a napkin: “If you win, you get what I caught. If you lose, I take your voice.” She laughed then, because she always did. “What the hell does that mean?” she’d asked, swirling her drink, blood-red and twice as toxic. The stranger didn’t answer. He just held out a deck of cards that smelled faintly of sulfur and old leather. She cut the deck, felt a zap under her fingertips, like licking a battery—but she was half-lit, halfway gone, and too proud to pull back. Three hands later, she won. Technically. She expected a bag of weird drugs. Maybe a wriggling thing in a jar. What she got was… warm. Alive. And looking at her like it already hated her guts. “You’re kidding,” she said, staring at the demon no bigger than a housecat, curled in the stranger’s black-gloved palm like a spoiled reptile. Its skin was wet, slick with blood or something trying to be it, and its teeth were small but too many. Its eyes were older than rules. It blinked—slow and smug. “He’s yours now,” the stranger said, voice like gravel in honey. “Don't name him. Don’t feed him after midnight. Don’t masturbate while he’s watching.” She choked on her drink. “Wait, what?” But the stranger was already fading into shadow, melting into the cigarette smoke and regret that passed for air in that place. All that was left was the creature in her lap, blinking its oily eyes and dragging a claw down her thigh like it was mapping her for later consumption. She didn’t name it. She called it “Dude.” “You better not piss on anything important,” she muttered, already regretting everything but the free drinks. The thing purred. Which was worse than any snarl. By sunrise, her apartment smelled like scorched leather and strange flowers. “Dude” had taken up residence in her lingerie drawer, hissed at her vibrator, and made three of her plants wilt just by looking at them. She watched him perch in her hand like some Satanic chihuahua, wings twitching, tail wrapped tight around her middle finger. That’s when she noticed: her thumb nail—bare just yesterday—was now painted crimson and sharp. Like it had grown that way. She stared at it. Then at the demon. “Dude,” she said, voice low and unsure, “are you doing... nail art?” He smiled. It was all teeth and bad news. And that’s when the scratching started. From inside the walls. The Claw That Feeds By the third night, Dude had claimed dominance over the television, her bedroom, and—possibly—her soul. She hadn’t slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him: curled up like a grotesque fetus in the glow of the lamp, wings twitching, muttering in a language made entirely of consonants and war crimes. He smelled like brimstone, black licorice, and regret. Her cat had moved out. Her neighbors started leaving butcher paper on her doorstep. No one had explained why. Worse, the nail thing had escalated. All ten fingers now gleamed with blood-red lacquer, sharp enough to open envelopes or jugulars. She’d broken a mug just holding it. Her touch left scorch marks. A guy on Tinder said he was into “witchy girls” and ended up sobbing in a fetal position after she touched his thigh. “Dude,” she hissed, watching the little bastard lick something off her phone charger, “I need my life back.” He burped. It smelled like ozone and roasted anxiety. She Googled “how to reverse demonic contract” and ended up on a blog run by a guy named Craig who lived in a bunker and sold artisanal salt circles. She bought two, just in case. They did nothing. Dude pissed in one and it screamed. The scratching in the walls had turned into whispering. Sometimes it said her name. Sometimes it just recited Yelp reviews in a dead language. Once it tried to sell her life insurance. She tried holy water. Dude drank it like wine, then offered her a sip. She blacked out and woke up on her bathroom floor with her mirror cracked and her teeth cleaner than they’d ever been. Her breath smelled like cinnamon and sin. “I don’t remember giving consent to any of this,” she muttered. Dude winked. It was awful. By week two, her landlord knocked. “There’ve been complaints,” he said, squinting past her at the flickering hallway behind her. “Someone said you’re running a cult or a TikTok house.” She blinked. “I work in HR.” Behind her, Dude appeared in the shadows, eating a Pop-Tart and making intense eye contact with the landlord. The man turned white, left a notice, and moved to Colorado the next day. At some point—she’s not sure when—her reflection started moving slower than she did. It smiled sometimes. When she wasn’t. Then came the night of the knock. Not on the door—on the window. Seventh floor. No balcony. She opened it. Because of course she did. The velvet-hooded stranger was there again, hovering just outside, suspended by logic-defying darkness. His gloved hand was extended, the red nails glinting in the moonlight. “You’ve kept him well,” he said, voice like a slow drag over gravel. “And now the second half of the deal.” “There was a second half?” she asked, already regretting every drink she’d ever accepted from strangers. “He chose you. That means... promotion.” Behind her, Dude fluttered up, perched on her shoulder like the worst shoulder devil in a sitcom gone to hell. He whispered something in her ear that made her eyes roll back and her feet lift off the ground. The room trembled. The walls began bleeding down the drywall like melting crayon. Her toenails turned crimson. Her Wi-Fi signal improved. Her laughter—dry, cracked, and unstoppable—filled the air like static. When the world stopped shaking, she stood taller, eyes rimmed in black fire, her body laced in dark silk that hadn’t been there before. “Well,” she said, smirking at her clawed hand, “at least the nails are killer.” The stranger nodded. “Welcome to management.” And just like that, she vanished into shadow, taking Dude, the Pop-Tart crumbs, and the lingering smell of sin with her. The apartment was empty when the cleaning crew arrived. Except for a single note scrawled on the mirror: “Midnight Clutch: Hold tight, or be held.”     🩶 Take It Home — Midnight Clutch Lives On If you’ve fallen for the twisted charm of “Midnight Clutch,” you can now summon the darkness into your space. Bring this demonic vision to life with Canvas Prints, cast it across your lair with an epic Tapestry, or carry your sins in style with a Tote Bag. Want to snuggle the madness? Yeah, we’ve got a Throw Pillow for that. Clutch it. Display it. Offer it to your weirdest friend. Just don’t feed it after midnight.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Hoppy Hour Hideaway

The Gnome, the Beer, and the Basement of Broken Dreams There are gnomes, and then there's Stigmund Ferndingle—a retired mischief-maker turned full-time beer philosopher. While most garden gnomes settle for standing around birdbaths and silently judging your lack of weeding, Stig had different aspirations. He was done with the ceramic life. He wanted hops. He wanted barley. He wanted to forget the Great Hedge Trimmer Massacre of ’98, one Heineken at a time. He set up shop in what used to be the damp, haunted corner of an old farmhouse basement—now lovingly renamed “The Hideaway.” With cracked plaster walls and a cooler older than most midlife crises, it was everything he never dreamed of and settled for anyway. He even had a sign, crudely etched in bark, that read: "No Elves, No Fairies, No Bullshit." Stigmund wasn’t picky, just jaded. Life had smacked him with one too many acorns. He didn’t trust anyone under four feet tall or sober enough to recite a riddle. His days were spent squatting by the cooler, sipping warm beer because the electricity had been shut off ever since he tried to wire the fridge using copper from a neighbor’s wind chime. “It hummed,” he’d say. “That’s technical enough.” One Tuesday—though it could’ve been a Thursday, time’s a blur when you're drunk and immortal—Stig cracked open his last bottle of Heineken. He tilted it toward the gods of barley with a solemn toast: “To broken promises, expired coupons, and the complete absence of meaningful tax reform.” Then, from the shadows, came a voice. Gravelly, thick with regret and sausage grease. “That better be the cold one you owe me, Ferndingle.” Stig didn’t look up. He knew that voice. He’d hoped it had choked on a chicken bone and floated off into the realm of forgotten side characters. But no. Throg the Drunken Troll had found him again. “Jesus, Throg. I thought you were banned from every basement in the county after the 'Incident with the Flamethrower and the Garden Salsa.'” “I got a pardon. Said it was an art installation gone wrong. You know, cultural expression and all that crap.” Stig rolled his eyes so hard he nearly sprained a socket. He took another sip of his beer, the last precious drop of liquid sanity in a world gone mad with elves trying to unionize and hobbits opening artisanal bakeries. “Well,” he said with a burp that rattled the paint chips off the wall, “if you’re here to drink, bring your own bottle. This one’s mine, and I’m too old to share or care.” Throg grunted, dropped a cooler that clanked suspiciously, and pulled out a mysterious green bottle labeled simply “Experimental – Do Not Consume”. Stig stared at it, then slowly grinned. “...Pour me a glass, you ugly bastard.” Experimental Brews and Unforgivable Flatulence Throg poured the liquid, which fizzed like it had opinions and regrets. The smell hit first—like fermented onions wrapped in gym socks and betrayal. Stig took a whiff and immediately questioned every decision that led him here, starting with the one where he *trusted a troll with a chemistry hobby.* “What the hell’s in this?” he croaked, holding the glass like it might bite. “Bit of this, bit of that,” Throg shrugged. “Mostly swamp hops, fermented fairy tears, and something I scraped off the underside of a kobold’s armpit.” “So... brunch?” They clinked glasses, a sound not unlike two gravestones making out, and drank. The reaction was instantaneous. Stig’s beard twitched. Throg’s left eye started vibrating. Somewhere in the room, the wallpaper peeled itself off and whispered, “Nope.” “Hot DAMN,” Stig choked, eyes watering. “That tastes like regret with a lemon twist.” “You’ll get used to it,” said Throg, just before he hiccuped and briefly turned invisible, only to reappear halfway through the floorboards. “Side effect. Temporarily phased into the ethereal plane. Don’t worry, it’s mostly boring in there.” After the third glass, they were both feeling bold. Stig attempted to do a dance called the “Root Stomp of the Ancients”, which mostly involved him tripping over a nail and blaming it on a cursed floorboard. Throg, ever the artist, tried to juggle beer bottles while reciting a poem about dwarven plumbing. It ended, as these things often do, in shattered glass and someone farting loud enough to scare off a raccoon in the vents. Hours passed. The cooler emptied. The air filled with tales of failed love affairs with mushroom witches, unsuccessful startups involving enchanted bidets, and a half-formed business idea called “Brew & Doom”—a tavern that doubled as a survival obstacle course. Eventually, as twilight crept through the basement grates and the hangover fairies circled overhead like tiny, winged harbingers of doom, Stig leaned back against the cooler and sighed. “You know, Throg... for a smelly, emotionally-stunted, swamp-dwelling ex-con—I don’t entirely hate drinking with you.” Throg, now half-asleep and softly humming the troll anthem (which was mostly guttural noises and the phrase “Don’t Touch My Meat”), gave a lazy thumbs-up. “Right back atcha, ya old piss goblin.” And thus, the night ended like most nights in the Hoppy Hour Hideaway—boozy, weird, and just shy of a fire hazard. But if you listen closely on lonely nights, past the creak of old pipes and the occasional beer burp echo, you might still hear the toast: “To broken dreams, bad decisions, and the brew that made it all tolerable.”     Epilogue: The Morning After and Other Catastrophes When Stigmund awoke, he was spooning the cooler. Not romantically—more like clinging to it for emotional support as one might do with a trusted bucket during a three-day ale bender. His hat had migrated halfway across the room, and somehow his beard had acquired a mysterious braid with a tiny rubber duck tied into it. His pants were intact, but his dignity had clearly fled during the second bottle of “Experimental.” Throg was upside down in a flowerpot, snoring through one nostril while the other whistled a haunting tune. There was a crude tattoo on his belly that read “TAP THAT” with an arrow pointing downward. Whether it was ink, soot, or regret was unclear. On the wall, in green Sharpie and misspelled Old Elvish, someone had scrawled: “Here Drank Legends. And They Were... Meh.” The hangover was biblical. The kind of headache that made you question your life choices, your gods, and whether fermented fairy tears should really be FDA-approved. Stig muttered dark gnomish curses under his breath and reached for his last piece of bread, which turned out to be a coaster. He ate it anyway. Eventually, Throg stirred, farted without apology, and sat up with the grace of a walrus falling down stairs. “You got any eggs?” he croaked. “Do I look like a breakfast buffet?” Stig snapped, scratching under his beard where something small and possibly sentient had taken refuge. “Get out of my hideaway. I’ve got three days of silence scheduled and I intend to use all of them to forget last night.” Throg grinned, wiped beer foam from his eyebrow, and stood. “You say that now, but I’ll be back Friday. You’re the only gnome I know who can hold their booze and insult my mother with such poetic flair.” “Damn right,” Stig muttered, already rooting around for a clean glass and a less cursed bottle. And so the cycle would begin again—one gnome, one troll, and the questionable sanctity of the Hoppy Hour Hideaway, where the beer is warm, the insults fly freely, and magic doesn’t stand a damn chance against fermented stupidity.     Take the Hideaway Home Want to bring the beer-soaked brilliance of Stig and Throg into your own questionable life choices? We've got you covered—whether you're sobering up, blacking out, or just need to explain why your tote bag smells like hops and regret. Wood Print – Rustic, sturdy, and perfect for hanging above your bar... or over that hole you punched in the drywall during karaoke. Framed Print – Add a touch of class to your chaos. Guaranteed to start conversations, or at least halt them awkwardly. Tote Bag – Holds groceries, spellbooks, or six cans of questionable troll brew. Durable and judgment-free. Spiral Notebook – Jot down beer recipes, bad ideas, or angry letters to the HOA. Gnome-tested, troll-approved. Beach Towel – For when you pass out poolside, beer in hand, and need something soft to cushion the shame. Disclaimer: No actual trolls were harmed in the production of these fine goods. Emotionally? Maybe. But they’ll get over it.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Born of Ash and Whisper

In Which the Dragon Crashes Brunch Maggie had three rules when it came to dating: no musicians, no cultists, and absolutely no summoning spells before coffee. So imagine her mood when her Sunday hangover was interrupted by a loud pop, a puff of sulfur, and a tiny, winged demon landing face-first into her half-eaten croissant. “Excuse you,” she muttered, flicking powdered sugar off her robe. The creature sneezed, coughed up a coal, and blinked at her with large, ember-flecked eyes. It looked like a lizard mated with a nightmare and gave birth to a goth chicken nugget. It hissed. Maggie hissed back. “Listen, Hot Topic,” she grumbled, cradling her forehead, “whatever infernal womb spat you out clearly didn’t finish the instructions.” The dragon squeaked indignantly and flapped its wings in what Maggie could only interpret as attitude. Its claws were tiny. Its ego? Not so much. As she tried to pick it up using a potholder and a cereal bowl, the creature inhaled deeply and burped out a perfect smoke ring in the shape of a middle finger. “Oh, sass. You came with sass.” Thirty minutes and one minor kitchen fire later, Maggie had managed to corral the dragon into an old cat bed she’d been meaning to donate to Goodwill. It curled up like a smug little inferno and immediately fell asleep. She could swear it purred. “This is fine,” she said to no one. “This is how people become warlocks, isn’t it?” Outside, the world continued being normal. Inside her rent-controlled apartment, a dragon that smelled like burnt marshmallows and sarcasm had adopted her. She poured herself more wine. It was 10:42 a.m. In Which Maggie Joins a Cult (But Just for the Snacks) The next morning Maggie woke up to find the dragon perched on her chest like a judgmental paperweight. It smelled faintly of espresso and something illegal in three states. Its name, according to the faintly glowing rune now tattooed across her forearm, was “Cindervex.” “Well, that’s not ominous at all,” she grumbled, poking the little beast in the snout. “Do you do tricks? Pay rent? Breathe less?” Cindervex snorted a puff of ash and promptly coughed up a tiny, slightly smoking coin. Maggie inspected it. Gold. Real gold. She turned to the dragon, who looked far too pleased with himself. “Okay, you live here now.” By noon, Maggie had a dragon in a baby Björn, aviators on, and a grocery list that included ‘kale’ and ‘dragon-safe firewood.’ She did not have answers, dignity, or any real understanding of the arcane arts, but she did have a glowing wrist tattoo that now vibrated when she passed the corner of 6th and Pine. “No,” she muttered. “Not today, Satan. Or Tuesday.” But the tug of magical curiosity and the faint scent of garlic knots drew her in like a moth to a pizza oven. Down an alley, through a brick archway, and past a sentient fern that tried to unionize her hair, Maggie found herself standing before a rustic wooden door with a sign that read: “THE ORDER OF FLAME & FOCACCIA — Visitors Welcome, Opinions Optional.” “Oh great,” she said. “It’s a hipster cult.” She was greeted by a woman in a caftan made of velvet and poor decisions, who immediately clasped her hands. “You’ve brought the Emberchild! The Scaled One! The Prophet of Reheated Destiny!” “I call him Vex. And he bites people who say ‘prophet’ with a straight face.” The woman—Sunblossom, of course—led Maggie through what could only be described as Restoration Hardware meets Hellboy fanfiction. Long wooden tables. Floating candles. A small wyvern in the corner wearing a beret and reading *The Economist.* “You’re among friends here,” Sunblossom purred. “We are bound by flame. By ritual. By the brunch buffet.” “Is that a waffle fountain?” Maggie asked, stunned. “Yes. And mimosa golems. They keep your glass full until you surrender or die.” Somewhere in the distance, a man screamed, “No more prosecco, you devil sponge!” Cindervex hissed happily. Apparently, this was home now. Over goat cheese frittata and a surprisingly insightful conversation about dragon soul-bonding laws, Maggie learned that Cindervex had chosen her. Not just as a caretaker, but as a Conduit—a human being tapped to bridge the magical and mundane, possibly lead a rebellion, and definitely help design seasonal merch for the cult’s online shop. “There’s a hoodie?” she asked. “Three. And a tumbler. BPA-free.” She paused. “Okay. I'm in. But just for the hoodie. And the snacks.” The room erupted in joyous fireballs. The mimosa golem did a cartwheel. Someone summoned a kazoo-playing imp. Maggie blinked. It was chaos. It was ridiculous. It was hers. Back at her apartment that evening, Maggie collapsed on the couch, Cindervex curled at her feet. Her wrist glowed faintly with new runes: Initiate. Brunch-Approved. Caution: May Ignite Sass. She laughed. Then she poured another glass of wine and toasted the ceiling. “To destiny. To waffles. To accidentally joining a cult.” Cindervex purred, burped out a fireheart-shaped smoke ring, and stole her throw pillow. Somehow, this was the most stable relationship she’d had in years.     Epilogue: In Which Everything Burns, But Like... In a Good Way Six months later, Maggie had adjusted to life as a brunch sorceress, part-time chaos gremlin, and reluctant cult celebrity. Cindervex now had a dedicated fire-proof bean bag, his own corner of the apartment (lined with gold coins and stolen socks), and an Instagram following of 78,000 under the handle @LilSmokeyLord. They still fought—mostly over bath time and how many fireballs were considered “too many” in a laundromat—but they were a unit now. Partners. A girl and her dragon, trying to navigate a world that didn’t list “arcane brunch queen” on its tax forms. The Order of Flame & Focaccia was thriving. They opened a second chapter in Portland. The hoodie waitlist was a nightmare. Maggie had accidentally become a motivational speaker for magical burnout recovery, which she delivered with the energy of someone who once summoned a thunderstorm because her latte had too much foam. She had friends now. A talking cauldron named Gary. A banshee who did her taxes. Even a date or two, though most were scared off by the part where her pet tried to set their shoelaces on fire “as a vibe check.” But she was happy. Not the fake kind of happy you post on social media, but the weird, loud, chaotic kind that makes your neighbors suspicious and your therapist very intrigued. On the night of the Vernal Equinox, she stood on her balcony with Cindervex on her shoulder. The city glittered below. Somewhere, distant drums thudded from a magical rave she wasn’t drunk enough to attend. Yet. “We good?” she asked the dragon. He flared his wings, let out a gentle burp of violet flame, and settled in. That was dragon-speak for ‘yes, and also I’m about to pee in your houseplant.’ “You little hell nugget,” she said, smiling. “Don’t ever change.” And he didn’t. Not really. He just got weirder. Louder. More chaotic. Like her. Which, when you think about it, was kind of the point. Everything burns eventually. Might as well light it up with someone who brings their own matches and snacks. The End... probably.     Bring the Flame Home 🔥 If you fell in love with the story of Maggie and her attitude-packed dragon, you're not alone. Now you can bring their world into yours with exclusive merch inspired by Born of Ash and Whisper, available now from Unfocussed. 🔥 Metal Print – Make a statement. Fireproof-ish. Beautifully bold. 🔥 Tapestry – Turn your wall into a magical gateway (or dragon lair). 🔥 Throw Pillow – For when your emotional support dragon needs emotional support. 🔥 Greeting Card – Say it with sass and smoke rings. Perfect for dragon-worthy messages. 🔥 Spiral Notebook – Chronicle your own accidental cult adventures in style. Because honestly, who doesn’t need more dragons in their life?

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Torchbearer of the Toadstool

The Itch in the Moss The woods, contrary to poetic belief, are not serene. They are loud, rude, and filled with creatures that don’t care about your personal space — especially if you’re knee-high and have wings like stained glass. Just ask Bibble. Bibble, a fairy of questionable repute, sat atop her chosen throne: a glistening red toadstool with the kind of white speckles that screamed, “do not lick.” She licked it anyway. She did a lot of things just to spite the rules. In her grubby little hand she held a torch — not magical, not ceremonial, just a stick she lit on fire because it made the beetles scatter dramatically. That, and she liked the power trip. “By the Glimmering Grubs of Gramble Root,” she muttered, staring into the flame, “I swear, if one more gnome asks if I grant wishes, I’m setting his beard on fire.” Bibble was not your average fairy. She didn’t flit, she strutted. She didn’t sprinkle pixie dust, she shook glitter in people’s faces and yelled “Surprise, b*tch!” She was not the chosen one — she was the annoyed one. And tonight, she was on patrol. Every seventh moon, a fairy must take the Spore Watch, ensuring that the Amanita Council’s fungal empire isn’t being nibbled on by rogue badgers or cursed raccoons. Bibble took this role very seriously. Mostly because the last fairy who skipped watch was now being used as a coaster in the council’s breakroom. “Torchbearer,” came a voice behind her. Slithery. Elongated. Like someone who practiced being creepy in front of a mirror. She didn’t turn around. “Creevus. Still oozing around like a sentient rash, I see.” “Charming as ever,” Creevus replied, sliding from the shadow of a mossy log, his cloak stitched from shed snakeskin and the dreams of disappointed parents. “The Council demands an update.” “Tell the Council their mushrooms are unbitten, their borders unmolested, and their Torchbearer deeply underpaid.” She blew a puff of smoke toward him, the flame flickering like it was laughing at him too. Creevus narrowed his eyes. Or maybe he just didn’t have eyelids. It was hard to tell with creeps like him. “Don’t let your spark go to your head, Bibble. We all know what happened to the last Torchbearer who disobeyed the Spore Law.” Bibble grinned, wide and wicked. “Yeah. I sent him flowers. Carnivorous ones.” Creevus vanished back into the darkness like an overdramatic theatre major. Bibble rolled her eyes so hard she nearly levitated off her mushroom. The flame danced. The night stretched its claws. Something was watching. Not Creevus. Not a badger. Something... older. And Bibble, goddess help us, grinned wider. The Spores of Suspicion The thing about being watched in the woods is — it’s rarely innocent. Squirrels watch you because they’re plotting. Owls? Judging. But this? This was something worse. Something ancient. Bibble hopped down from her toadstool, torch held like a royal scepter, eyes narrowed. The flame’s glow made her shadow stretch tall and lanky across the mossy ground, like it was auditioning for a villain role in a woodland soap opera. “Alright then,” she shouted, twirling the torch. “If you’re going to stalk me, at least buy me dinner first. I like acorn wine and fungi you can't pronounce.” The forest answered with silence — thick, heavy, and absolutely hiding something. And then, with the elegance of a drunk centipede in heels, it emerged. Not a beast. Not a ghost. But a creature known only in whispers: Glubble. Yes, that was its name. No, Bibble wasn’t impressed either. Glubble had the face of a melted toad, the smell of compost tea, and the conversational charm of wet socks. He wore a robe made entirely of leaf husks and arrogance. “Bibble of Sporesend,” he rasped. “Bearer of Flame. Licker of Forbidden Caps.” “Oh look, it talks,” she said dryly. “Let me guess. You want the torch. Or my soul. Or to invite me to some terrible forest cult.” Glubble blinked slowly. Bibble could swear she heard his eyelids squelch. “The Flame is not yours. The Torch belongs to the Rotmother.” “The Rotmother can suck my bark,” Bibble snapped. “I lit this thing with dried moth guts and sheer spite. You want it? Make a PowerPoint.” Glubble hissed. Somewhere behind him, a slug exploded from stress. Bibble didn’t flinch. She’d once stabbed a possum with a licorice wand. She feared nothing. “You mock the old ways,” Glubble wheezed. “You taint the Watch.” “I am the Watch,” she declared, raising the torch. “And trust me, darling, I make tainting look good.” There was a sudden rumble — deep beneath the forest floor. Trees leaned in. Moss shivered. From the base of Bibble’s old toadstool throne came a sound like choking fungus. “Ah, fantastic,” she muttered. “I woke the throne.” The mushroom had been enchanted, yes. But no one told her it had feelings. Especially not the emotionally unstable kind. It stood now, unfolding from the ground like a sad inflatable sofa, eyes blinking beneath its cap, and let out a pitiful groan. “Torch…bearer…” it moaned. “You… never moisturize me…” Bibble sighed. “Not now, Marvin.” “You sat on me for weeks,” it whimpered. “Do you know what that does to a mushroom’s self-esteem?” Glubble raised a clawed hand. “The Rotmother comes,” he declared with terrible drama. Thunder rolled. Somewhere, an owl choked on its tea. “And I’m sure she’s lovely,” Bibble deadpanned. “But if she tries to mess with my watch, my torch, or my emotionally needy mushroom, we are going to have a situation.” The woods fell into chaos. Roots whipped like angry noodles, spores exploded from the ground in clouds of glittery rage, and a deer — possessed by pure drama — threw itself sideways into a ravine just to avoid involvement. Bibble, torch raised, yelled a war cry that sounded suspiciously like “You fungal freaks picked the wrong fairy!” and leapt onto Marvin’s back as he sprinted like a caffeinated Roomba through the underbrush. Glubble pursued, screaming ancient rot-prayers and tripping over his own leaves. Behind them, the Rotmother began to rise — enormous, festering, and surprisingly well-accessorized. But Bibble didn’t care. She had a flame. A throne. And just enough bad attitude to spark a revolution. “Next full moon,” she shouted into the wind, “I’m bringing wine. And fire. And maybe some self-help books for my throne.” She cackled into the mossy night as the forest shuddered with spores and chaos and the joy of one fairy who absolutely did not care about your ancient prophecies. The flame burned brighter. The Watch would never be the same.     Epilogue: The Fire and the Fungus The woods eventually stopped screaming. Not because the Rotmother was defeated. Not because Glubble found inner peace or because the Council decided to cancel Bibble (they tried — she cursed their group chat). No, the forest settled because it realized one immutable truth: You don’t fight Bibble. You adjust your entire ecosystem around her. The Spore Laws were rewritten, mostly in crayon. The official title “Torchbearer” was changed to “Spicy Forest Overlord,” and Bibble insisted her mushroom throne be referred to as “Marvin, the Moist Magnificent.” He cried. A lot. But it was growth. Creevus retired early, moved to a cave, and started a disappointing podcast about ancient fungus. Glubble joined a moss therapy group. The Rotmother? She’s now on TikTok, doing slow, haunting makeup tutorials and reviewing mushrooms with disturbing intimacy. As for Bibble? She built a shrine out of old beetle shells and sarcasm. Every now and then, she hosts illegal bonfires for delinquent fairies and teaches them how to yell at shadows and forge torches from twigs, venom, and pure audacity. When travelers pass through the woods and feel a sudden warmth — a flicker of fire, a rustle of glittery defiance — they say it’s her. The Torchbearer of the Toadstool. Still watching. Still petty. Still, somehow, in charge. And somewhere, under the roots, Marvin sighs happily… then asks if she brought lotion.     If you feel your life lacks just a little chaos, confidence, or flaming toadstool energy — bring Bibble home. You can channel your inner Torchbearer with a framed print for your lair, a glorious metal print for your altar of chaos, a soft and suspiciously magical tapestry for wall summoning rituals, or a wickedly stylish tote bag to carry snacks, spite, and questionable herbs. Bibble approves. Probably.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Echoes of Tropic Thunder

The Sky Is Not Your Stage—It’s Mine In the heart of a rainforest that tourists only reach after three panic attacks, two leech bites, and at least one existential crisis, there exists a legend. Not a whispered myth or a carved-to-death tribal tale, no. A living, screeching, full-plume riot of a legend. His name? Rey Azul del Humo. Or as the gringos call him—"That Bastard Bird Who Stole My Hat." Rey Azul was no ordinary macaw. He didn’t just fly—he descended. Like Zeus in feathered drag, wrapped in smoke and attitude. His tail alone could spark an identity crisis in a peacock, and his beak had tasted more camera lenses than rainforest fruit. If a storm brewed, it was only because he willed it. If a rainbow showed up afterward, he rolled his eyes and said, “Try harder.” Locals worshipped him, or at least pretended to, mostly out of fear that he'd steal their cigarettes or poop on their roof tiles in judgment. He ruled the treetops with a charisma only rivaled by that one ex you still dream about but tell your therapist you're over. One time, a drone tried to film him. Rey Azul performed a full aerial backflip, flipped the drone the metaphorical bird mid-air, and then escorted it—with talons—to the ground. He then sat on it, spread his wings, and screeched for ten glorious minutes while the jungle watched in awkward awe. He was more than feathers and fury—he was an icon. A flamboyant middle finger to subtlety. A war cry for color, chaos, and unapologetic pride. The forest didn’t just echo with thunder; it echoed with him. His voice. His strut. His feathers that shimmered like they were sponsored by some illicit alliance of tequila and glitter. And Rey knew it. Oh, he knew. Every snap of his wings was a statement piece. Every time he perched on a limb, it became a throne. This wasn't nature. This was fashion week on acid. With claws. He didn’t blend in. He refused to. That’s for parrots with a job. Rey was freelance at best—an untamed contractor of disruption and sky drama. And so, when the smoke rose—fiery orange, electric blue, impossible purple—it wasn’t because the world was on fire. It was because Rey Azul felt dramatic that day. Burnt Sky, No Regrets Now let’s set the scene: dawn. But not your serene Instagrammable dawn where birds tweet and yoga mats breathe lavender-scented dreams. No, this was Rey Azul’s kind of dawn—blazing, loud, chaotic. Somewhere between a Renaissance painting and a nightclub fire hazard. The jungle wasn’t waking up gently. It was getting slapped in the face by feathers and told to get fabulous or get forgotten. Today was not an ordinary strut-and-squawk kind of day. No. Rey had plans. A tropical storm was incoming, and the humidity clung to the air like a desperate ex. He could smell ozone and human incompetence drifting in with the wind. Somewhere, a wildlife photographer was crouching in khakis they hadn’t earned, whispering, “Come on, baby, just one clean shot.” Rey chuckled internally. He lived for this. High in the canopy, he fluffed his chest feathers into what could only be described as a tactical glam formation. He was about to give them a show. Not for the humans. Not for the tourists. Not for the scientists who called him “subject M-47” like he was some jungle spreadsheet. No, this performance was for himself. Because if you weren’t serving main-character energy in the face of environmental collapse, what even was the point? He launched into the air with a screech that could curdle oat milk. Smoke—because of course there was smoke—billowed around him in orange and violet tendrils, summoned either by pure physics or the raw drama he exhaled with every beat of his wings. He didn't fly; he stormed the atmosphere. A full riot in slow motion. Below him, a sloth looked up mid-yawn and muttered, “Oh no, he’s monologuing again.” But no one could hear it over the roaring of feathers slicing air like gossip through a brunch table. The smoke coiled like an adoring serpent around his tail feathers. Tropical fire met monsoon sky, and Rey danced in between—equal parts deity and drag queen, part myth, part middle finger to normalcy. It was performance art. It was rebellion. It was bird-on-bird dominance theater, and it was fabulous. The drone returned. A new one. Different brand. Different owner. Probably insured. This time, Rey paused mid-air, turned to face it like a Shakespearean actor seeing his fate in a floating eye of metal, and did the one thing no machine could understand: He winked. The footage went viral. “Real-life phoenix?” the headlines read. “Jungle diva spotted over Amazon.” Rey was indifferent. He didn’t read blogs. He was the blog. Later that day, soaked in rain and unbothered, Rey perched atop the highest branch in the jungle. The storm cracked open the sky like a broken promise, and lightning lit the forest in brief strobe-lit snapshots. He squawked once—short, sharp, and final. Down below, someone whispered, “What the hell was that?” A guide smiled, looked to the clouds, and said, “Just thunder. And ego.” But it wasn’t thunder. Not really. Not anymore. It was the Echo of Tropic Thunder. And his reign? Unquestioned. Unfiltered. Unapologetically ablaze. Rey Azul del Humo didn’t rule the jungle. He was the jungle—with extra smoke, a touch of glitter, and not a single ounce of chill.     Epilogue: Plume & Legacy Years passed, as they do in jungles and in dreams—slow, sticky, and full of chirping you can never quite identify. Rey Azul? He never died. Please. That kind of drama queen doesn’t get a “death”—he gets a departure. A vanishing act so seamless that even the clouds paused to reconsider their relevance. One day, the jungle just... got quieter. Not in sound, but in energy. As if someone had taken down the main stage after the last encore. The trees still swayed. The birds still sang. But that lingering sense of judgmental fabulousness? That divine eye-roll energy? It was gone. Some say he flew into a thunderstorm and never came back. Others say he’s immortal, traveling from canopy to canopy like some avian freelance chaos spirit. A few jungle elders insist he lives in the smoke itself now—every tendril a whisper of his laugh, every curl of mist a flash of his impossible feathers. There are signs. A rainbow that forms with too much attitude. A gust of wind that feels like it’s side-eyeing your outfit. A branch that shakes just a bit too sassy for a squirrel. And if you ever see a sudden burst of smoke colored like fire and twilight had a scandalous love child? You bow. You don’t question. You whisper, “He’s watching.” Because Rey Azul del Humo may be gone from sight, but legends never really leave. They just perch higher than you can see—and judge silently, from above.     🔥 Take the Thunder Home If Rey Azul’s unapologetic chaos, color, and charisma struck a chord in your soul, why not bring that energy into your daily life? Our exclusive "Echoes of Tropic Thunder" collection turns attitude into art across premium lifestyle products. Just like the bird himself, these aren't here to blend in. 🔥 Metal Print – For bold walls and unapologetic vibes. Sleek, high-gloss, and as dramatic as Rey himself. 🌀 Tapestry – Drape your space in fire and feathered fury. Interior decor just got tropical. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry chaos with you. Groceries, books, or just your unfiltered personality—it fits. 💥 Throw Pillow – For resting your head after a long day of being louder than life. Feathers fade, but style lasts forever. Shop now and add some thunder to your space.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Bloomkeeper's Lamb

The Garden That Grew Itself Somewhere between where the map ends and where afternoon naps become time travel, there’s a village so small it fits in a pocket dimension — or at least inside the walls of Mrs. Tattersham’s overgrown back garden. Nobody really *moves* there. People just show up with suitcases they don't remember packing and an odd craving for elderflower cordial. They call it Hushmoor Hollow. Now, Hushmoor was known for many things: silent goats, whispering fences, and that one Tuesday when it rained marmalade (don’t ask). But mostly, it was known for the Garden That Grew Itself — a spectacular riot of peonies, roses, and things with far too many vowels in their botanical names, blooming entirely out of sync with the seasons and sometimes in sync with showtunes. No one admitted to tending it. The mayor (a retired opera singer named Dennis) insisted it was “self-cultivating,” though he did once get caught pruning the azaleas while singing to them in Italian. But the truth — the real, whispered-at-tea-time truth — was this: the garden belonged to the Bloomkeeper. And the Bloomkeeper’s lamb? She was a fluffball of inconvenient mysteries. Imagine a lamb. Not your average field-hopper. This one’s wool swirled in tight little curls like spun sugar, shifting hues depending on the angle of the sun or whether you’d said anything cynical lately. She smelled faintly of peppermint and improbable hope. Her eyes? Far too intelligent for someone who frequently licked tree bark like it owed her money. Her name was Luma, and she arrived one spring evening precisely 14 minutes after Hushmoor’s last clock stopped ticking. She simply walked out from the thickest bloom of moon-roses and looked at the villagers like they were the surprise, not her. No one knew where she came from. But the garden grew twice as fast after she appeared. And twice as weird. Within a week, the begonias started forming synchronized dance formations. Bees spoke in haiku. Dennis was abducted briefly by a very polite mushroom (he came back smelling of tea and thunderclaps). And Luma? She just stood there, blinking slowly, like she was waiting for someone to finally read the instructions. Then the dreams started. Dreams of distant bells, ancient keys, and doors made entirely of petals. Everyone in Hushmoor had them, though no one spoke of it aloud, because — well — that's how things work in magical villages held together by gossip and curiosity. One morning, a letter appeared under Luma’s hooves. It was written in gold ink and smelled like elderflower and ambition. The note read: “You are late. The Bloomkeeper is missing. Please report to the Seventh Gate immediately. And bring the lamb.” Luma blinked twice. Then, turning with an alarming sense of purpose for someone shaped like a marshmallow, she trotted toward the forest edge. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke. Until Dennis, back from his fungal escapade, said: “Well, bollocks. I guess we’re going adventuring, then.” And that’s how the village, the lamb, and a great deal of gardening equipment found themselves heading into a realm they didn’t know existed, to find someone they weren’t sure was real… led by a pastel-colored mystery with a peppermint-scented butt. The Seventh Gate (And Other Unwise Landscaping) The party was seven strong: Dennis, who insisted on bringing opera binoculars despite lacking an opera; Miss Turnwell, the village baker with a suspicious knowledge of swordplay; two identical twins named Ivy who communicated exclusively in interpretive sneezes; young Pip, who had recently turned into a flower for an afternoon and come back oddly confident; a shovel named Gregor (don’t ask); and of course, Luma — the pastel lamb with a gaze like she remembered your childhood secrets. They followed her through the forest, which was less a forest and more a polite riot of sentient topiary. The hedges whispered things like “left at the mushrooms” or “have you seen my comb?” and nobody seemed to question it. Luma never faltered. Her tiny hooves barely touched the mossy floor as if the earth was giving her a gentle push with each step. The Seventh Gate turned out to be a large wrought iron arch nestled between two ancient willow trees, with glowing vines spelling out the words: “If You’re Reading This, It’s Probably Too Late.” It gave off the exact vibe of a place that had opinions about who was worthy — or at the very least, a strong interest in dramatic timing. “Shall we knock?” Dennis asked, before the gate sighed audibly and swung open on its own, revealing… a hallway. Not a garden path or a mystical realm. Just a dimly lit hallway that looked like it had been designed by someone who once ate a candle and thought, “Yes. This should be a vibe.” They stepped inside, and immediately, their thoughts got louder. Not verbally — mentally. Pip’s inner monologue began narrating everyone’s actions in a dramatic voice (“Dennis brandishes his opera glasses, bold but emotionally conflicted!”), while one of the Ivys projected continuous images of extremely disappointed grandparents. Miss Turnwell’s brain kept chanting “There is no muffin. There is only the jam.” over and over. Only Luma seemed unfazed. She trotted down the corridor as the very walls shimmered with blooming vines and smells that didn’t exist in the normal world — scents like “first kiss in spring rain” and “cherry pie left on a windowsill for someone who never came home.” At the end of the corridor was a room. Round. Bright. Floating somewhere between “luxury greenhouse” and “witch’s conservatory.” And at the center, reclining on a throne made entirely of thistles and chamomile, was the Bloomkeeper. Or… what was left of her. She looked like someone had pressed ‘pause’ halfway through turning into a constellation. Stars blinked from her cheeks, vines curled through her hair, and her voice sounded like bees politely holding a meeting. “You're late,” she said, eyes on Luma. “I expected you… two blooms ago.” Luma snorted. Loudly. A tiny peony popped from her wool and bounced across the floor. No one knew what that meant, but the Bloomkeeper smiled — that kind of smile that might turn into lightning or forgiveness, depending on how you held it. “They came with you,” she said, gesturing toward the awkward line of villagers now pretending to know how to stand heroically. “That changes things.” “What things?” asked Pip, nervously adjusting a petal that had mysteriously sprouted from his collarbone. The Bloomkeeper stood, her vines curling gently around her arms like living lace. “The garden is no longer content with itself,” she said. “It wants… out.” A moment passed. A deep, root-stirring silence. “Out… of what?” Dennis asked slowly. “Out of here,” she whispered, tapping her temple. “Out of dreams and into streets. Into cities. Into poems written in chalk and hearts that forgot to water themselves.” Luma bleated. The Bloomkeeper nodded. Then, without warning, she unraveled — not in a sad way. More like she’d turned into wind and light and something older than both. In her place stood a mirror. Inside it: a garden. Wild. Blooming. Alive. And waiting. Underneath, a message etched in petals: “To tend a garden like this, you must first break open.” The mirror rippled. And Luma walked through it. The others stood, blinking, unsure. Until Ivy (or was it the other Ivy?) took Pip’s hand and stepped in after her. Then Miss Turnwell. Then Gregor the shovel (still don’t ask). One by one, they entered — shedding old fears like petals on the wind. Only Dennis hesitated. He looked back once, toward the place they'd come from — the cozy, bizarre little village of Hushmoor. Then forward, into the blooming unknown. He straightened his jacket, adjusted his opera glasses, and said: “Right. Let’s garden some chaos.” And with that, the gate closed behind them. But somewhere in Hushmoor, the flowers still danced. And if you looked closely, you’d see new ones blooming — ones that hadn’t existed before. Ones shaped like memory, mischief… and a little lamb’s hoofprint in the soil.     Epilogue: The Hoofprint and the Hush Years passed, as they do — irregularly, if you're in Hushmoor — and the village changed in ways that no one could quite measure. The fences no longer whispered (they sang now, mostly jazz standards), and the marmalade rain had become seasonal rather than spontaneous. The garden remained, impossibly alive, though no one pruned it anymore. It pruned itself, occasionally into the shapes of things not yet invented. Flowers bloomed in languages. Peonies opened to reveal keys, poems, and once, a tiny pair of socks labeled “emotional backup.” And every so often, someone new would appear. Not move in — just appear. Standing at the gate with grass in their shoes and a look like they’d accidentally remembered a dream. They would walk through the village, take tea with Miss Turnwell (still the baker, now also a semi-retired wand instructor), and eventually find themselves near the mirror — now standing proudly at the edge of the garden, framed by twining lavender and a little sign that read: “Proceed if you wish to bloom unbegracefully.” No one saw Luma again in quite the same way. But every full moon, the flowers would bend toward the horizon, as if listening. And in the morning, there’d always be a single perfect hoofprint in the soil. Right at the gate. It smelled faintly of peppermint. And impossible hope. Somewhere out there, beyond mirror and vine, the Bloomkeeper’s Lamb still wandered. Growing gardens in people’s hearts. Snorting at overly serious poets. And making sure no one — not even the most cynical, root-bound soul — forgot that they, too, were meant to bloom. The End. Sort of.     If the story lingered in your chest like a dream you’re not ready to wake from, you can bring a piece of Hushmoor Hollow home. The Bloomkeeper’s Lamb is available as a framed print to enchant your walls, a metal print that gleams like moonlit garden gates, a throw pillow to cuddle like a slightly mysterious pastel companion, and even a fleece blanket — warm enough to ward off even the most cryptic chills. Let your space bloom with whimsy and wonder, one hoofprint at a time.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Brave Little Liar

Fin It to Win It Deep in the tepid shallows of the neighborhood koi pond—not even a proper lake, mind you—swam a goldfish with delusions far grander than his gallon-sized existence allowed. His name? Morty. Short for Mortimer T. Bubbleton III, if you asked him, though nobody ever did. Morty wasn’t your average ornamental peasant, content to dart between pebbles and wait for toddler fingers to drop pellets from above. No, Morty had ambition. And, more dangerously, he had imagination. “I wasn’t born to swish around with these soggy yes-fish,” he muttered one morning, as he flared his gills at his own reflection in a pond-filter bubble. “I was born to terrorize the tides. I was born to make the ducks flee.” And so, with a DIY spirit usually reserved for frustrated dads in garages and underpaid Etsy sellers, Morty strapped on a shark fin. Not a digital dream, not a Photoshop gag—an actual foam-core dorsal, painted battleship gray, affixed to his slimy gold frame with a bit of lost Velcro and a single shoelace. How it stayed on is a mystery best left to aquatic gods or science fiction. At first, the pond erupted in chaos. The minnows squealed (yes, audibly), the frogs fled to the reeds, and even a particularly judgy heron reconsidered his lunch plans. Morty felt it. That glorious, terrifying power. He wasn’t Morty anymore. He was Megalofish. The Finomenon. King of the chlorinated swamp! “Bow before me, you algae-humping cowards!” he bellowed, though it came out more like *blub-blub-snort-gargle*. Still, the message landed. But as the days passed, Morty realized that power came with, shall we say, logistical challenges. For starters, the fin dragged like a sunken brick. His signature tail flick was reduced to a sad little wiggle, and his stealth factor was effectively zero. Any stealth was out the window the moment the fin hit the surface and cut a dark triangle of terror across the water. He was a floating warning label: “Might be overcompensating.” And the koi—those slow, sashimi-colored nobodies—began to talk. Whisper, gossip, giggle behind their gills. “Who does he think he is?” sneered Bubbles, a koi with the personality of a beige carpet. “It’s not even saltwater.” “That’s not even his fin,” added another, who once tried to mate with a decorative rock and now fancied herself an intellectual. But Morty didn’t care. He had something more dangerous than credibility—he had delusion and audacity, which, in the right combination, could move mountains or at least knock over a moderately tall water lily. Then came the day the humans noticed. Oh yes. The human child, in his grubby Crocs and marshmallow-sticky hands, squatted by the pond, eyes wide as sewer lids. “Mom,” he screeched. “There’s a shark in the pond!” And Morty, oh sweet, ridiculous Morty, surfaced with dramatic flair. Fin cutting the surface. Pose immaculate. Gaze fierce. He was a badass. He was a beast. He was... netted immediately and dumped in a fishbowl for observation. The fall was fast. The bowl was small. The delusion? Still very, very large. “They had to remove me,” Morty rationalized, swirling dramatically against the glass. “Too powerful for containment. Too dangerous. I was a threat to the balance of nature. And the ducks.” He would return. He would rise again. With a bigger fin. A better strap. Maybe even a second fin. Who said sharks only get one? And somewhere, deep in the pond’s silent reeds, the koi whispered nervously. Because they knew— Morty was full of crap… but damn it, sometimes crap floats. The Return of the Fin King Morty spent four full days swirling in that sad, little glass bowl like some kind of imprisoned celebrity—part sideshow attraction, part cautionary tale. The humans poked, filmed, and posted his every motion. “Goldfish with shark fin! 😂 #TinyTerror #FakeAF”. Millions of views. Millions of laughs. And still, Morty plotted. Oh yes. Beneath the filter’s hum and beside a tiny ceramic pirate chest, revenge simmered like pondscum in July. “Laugh it up, land apes,” he muttered, gnawing a flake of food with the quiet rage of a disgraced general. “But I will return. And this time, I’m bringing teeth.” Day five, Morty made his move. Under cover of toddler nap time, a careless elbow tipped the bowl. He rode the wave like Poseidon in a Vegas stunt show, flopping gloriously onto the linoleum, screaming (internally) all the way. The humans panicked. Shrieks. Towels. Tears. One of them yelled something about “emotional damage to the child.” Morty just gasped and blinked like an Oscar-winner in a dying scene—pure drama, pure manipulation. He survived. Again. And with great triumph came great reward: they released him back into the pond. **HIS** pond. The prodigal fin had returned. But things had changed. The koi had leveled up. One had a decorative tattoo—just algae, but the effect was vaguely intimidating. Another now spoke in cryptic philosophical riddles after binge-floating near the garden Buddha. And worst of all, someone had installed a plastic alligator head in the water to “keep the birds away.” As if that would scare Morty the Menace. He needed a new plan. A bigger splash. So he doubled down on everything. Two fins now—one dorsal, one tail. He crafted them from a child’s broken flip-flop and a tiny action figure’s shield. Resourceful. Trashy. Perfect. With hot glue stolen from a garage cobweb and bits of string, Morty rigged himself into a full-blown aquatic warrior. Think Mad Max, but fishier and less vegan. He emerged like an absolute lunatic—tail thrashing, fins wobbling, eyes bugged like a sleep-deprived tax auditor. The pond erupted. Frogs dove. Minnows screamed. The koi? They froze. There was no denying it: he looked insane. “I AM MORTY, BRINGER OF CHAOS,” he bellowed. “I HAVE ASCENDED. I AM TWO-FINNED NOW.” “You look like a floating garage sale,” someone whispered. “EAT MY BUBBLES,” Morty screamed back. But this time, something weird happened. The fear? It didn’t fade—it mutated. They weren’t just laughing at him now. They were respecting the madness. Koi started mimicking his movements. A turtle did a lap in his honor. Even the heron gave him a single, slow nod from across the yard—predator to predator. Or, you know, predator to deeply confused maniac with a plastic fin complex. Still. It counted. The pond had changed. But so had Morty. He wasn’t just pretending anymore. The line between bluff and belief had dissolved. He was the fin. The delusion had become identity. And identity? That’s power, baby. Now, when the human child squats by the pond, marshmallow residue crusting his lip, he doesn't laugh. He watches. Reverent. Maybe a little scared. And Morty? Morty swims slow. He lets the fin breach the surface just slightly. Just enough to make someone spill their juice box. He doesn’t need to be big. He doesn’t need to be real. He just needs to be bold enough to believe his own bullshit. And in this pond, that’s how legends are made. Morty the Fin King.Tiny. Loud. Unhinged. Unstoppable. And somewhere, across the rippling surface of the koi kingdom, a single whisper floats: “Sometimes, all it takes is a fake fin and the balls to wear it.”     Epilogue: The Gospel According to Morty Years later—okay, more like six months, which is forever in goldfish terms—Morty lives on not as a fish, but as a myth. A damp, slightly delusional, wildly over-accessorized myth. The koi now wear fins. Not real ones, mind you, just painted-on symbols of rebellion. There’s a secret “Fin Club,” complete with weekly surface meetings and algae cocktails. No frogs allowed. The turtle has started a podcast. Humans still visit the pond. They peer in, whisper, point. “That’s where the shark-fish came from,” they say, like they’ve stumbled upon some cryptid spawning ground. Kids press sticky faces to the glass, hoping for a glimpse. Some say they’ve seen him. Others claim he’s long gone. But under the water, just past the lily pads, a faint shimmer sometimes cuts the surface. A triangle. A ripple. A legacy. And in the pond’s darkest corner, beneath a sunken Tonka truck and a pile of abandoned fish flakes, something stirs. A bubble. A blub. A whisper: “Don’t ever let them tell you you’re just a goldfish.” Because Morty proved it—loudly, ridiculously, triumphantly: fake fins, real guts. Long live the lie.     Bring Morty Home (But Maybe Not in a Bowl) If you felt the bold, briny energy of Morty the Fin King ripple through your soul, good news—now you can bring his legendary nonsense into your actual habitat. Art Print – Display Morty's greatest moment on your wall. Warning: may inspire overconfidence. Framed Print – For when you're feeling extra fancy, like Morty in his two-fin era. Shower Curtain – Start every day with aquatic ambition and unnecessary drama. Bath Towel – Dry off with the confidence of a goldfish who thinks he’s a predator. Brave Little Liar because sometimes, greatness starts with a fake fin and a load of gall.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Easter Gnome's Secret Stash

Of Eggs and Egos It was the Thursday before Easter, and somewhere in the overgrown back corner of an English cottage garden, a gnome named Barnaby Thistlebum was preparing for what he considered to be the most important event of the year: the Annual Egg Hiding Championship. An event so sacred, so deeply rooted in gnome culture, that it made the Summer Solstice Pie Bake-Off look like amateur hour. Barnaby wasn't your typical gnome. While most of his kin were content with humming over mushrooms or pruning violets with unnecessary drama, Barnaby had ambition. And not just the small kind. We’re talking *legendary underground chocolate mafia* levels of ambition. His dream? To become the most feared and revered egg-hider in all the woodland realms. This year, however, the stakes were high. Rumors whispered through tulip petals and buzzed by gossipy bees told of a challenger—a mischievous sprite known only as “Twig.” Twig, it was said, had mastered the art of egg invisibility and once hid an egg inside a robin’s nest mid-flight. Barnaby, naturally, took offense to this. “Nonsense,” he scoffed, peering through his monocle at the basket of glittering, impossibly well-decorated eggs he’d lacquered himself. “Floating eggs. Invisible eggs. What’s next, eggs that quote Nietzsche?” Armed with nothing but his own ingenuity and a suspiciously sticky map of the garden, Barnaby set out at dawn. His beard was braided for aerodynamic efficiency. His olive shirt bore the proud badge of the Gnomeland Security Agency (a title he awarded himself, complete with laminated ID card). And in his hands? Two eggs of epic misdirection—one filled with confetti and the other with marzipan whiskey truffles. He placed eggs in birdhouses, teacups, and the hollow of a boot once owned by a garden witch with a gambling problem. Every egg had its story. The pink-striped one with the glitter shell? Hidden beneath a dandelion trap that would sneeze glitter on any who disturbed it. The blue speckled egg? Dangling from a fishing line rigged between two daffodils, swaying like bait for curious children and cocky squirrels. By mid-afternoon, Barnaby was sweaty, smug, and just a little bit drunk on the truffle fillings he'd “quality checked.” With only one egg left, he sat on a mossy rock, admiring his handiwork. The garden looked innocent enough—an explosion of color and bloom—but beneath the daffodil dazzle lurked 43 impossibly hidden eggs and one emotionally unstable toad guarding a golden one. “Let Twig try to top this,” Barnaby muttered, pulling his hat over his eyes and collapsing backward into a pile of lavender. He laughed to himself, then quickly stopped, realizing his laughter sounded just a bit too villainous. “Damn it, keep it whimsical,” he reminded himself aloud. The Great Egg War of Willowbend When Barnaby Thistlebum awoke the next morning, he was immediately aware of two things: one, the bees were unnaturally quiet, and two, he’d been pranked. It wasn’t the type of gentle prank one might expect in the gnome world—like daffodil dye in your tea or enchanted hiccups that sang madrigals. No. This was full-on sabotage. The kind of prank that screamed “war has been declared and it’s pastel-colored.” His eggs… were gone. All 43 of them, plus the emotionally unstable toad. In their place: ceramic decoys, each one shaped like a smug-looking acorn with Twig’s initials carved on the bottom in aggressive cursive. Even worse, a hand-written note lay at his feet, folded into the shape of a duck (a show-off move if there ever was one): “Nice hiding spots, Thistlebum. I found them all before brunch. Thought I’d leave you something to remember me by. Hoppily yours, —Twig 🧚‍♂️” Barnaby’s fists clenched. Somewhere deep in his beard, a robin nesting for the season sensed a tremor of rage and relocated to a less chaotic gnome. “This. Means. WAR,” he hissed, channeling the fury of a thousand overcooked scones. And so began the Great Egg War of Willowbend. Barnaby sprang into action like a garden ninja fueled by spite and caffeine. He sprinted (okay, briskly waddled) back to his burrow, where he retrieved his secret stash of emergency eggs. Not just any eggs, mind you—these were trick eggs, each one a miracle of gnome engineering and bad decisions. Among them: The Screamer: emits the sound of an angry goat when touched. The Sleeper: contains poppy spores to mildly sedate nosy elves. The Gossip: whispers your secrets back at you until you cry. Barnaby recruited allies—mostly disgruntled woodland creatures and one exiled hedgehog who owed him a favor. Together, they deployed decoys and diversions, leaving a trail of false clues across the garden. Gnome scouts delivered misinformation wrapped in daisy petals. Smoke bombs made of thyme and sassafras exploded into clouds of lavender deception. By twilight, the garden had become a minefield of psychological warfare. And then, just as Barnaby prepared to unleash The Whispering Egg (a sentient creation banned in three provinces), a shriek cut through the air. “AAAAUGH! MY HAIR IS FULL OF HONEY!” Twig. The sprite emerged from the rosebushes, soaked head to toe in wild honey and wearing a daisy chain crown now swarming with bees. Barnaby cackled with the kind of unhinged joy usually reserved for the final act of a Shakespearean tragedy. “You fell for the Bee Trap!” he shouted, brandishing a spoon like a sword. “You sticky little goblin!” Twig glared, swatting bees and dignity with equal desperation. “You planted eggs full of jam in my treehouse!” “That was diplomacy!” Barnaby countered. “You vandalized my truffle stash!” “You threatened me with an egg that quotes Nietzsche!” “That egg was philosophical, not aggressive!” And then, something strange happened. They laughed. Both of them, doubled over in the honeysuckle, choking on pollen and absurdity. The war had lasted less than a day, but it was legendary. And as the moon rose over the garden, they sat together beneath a weeping willow, sipping rosehip tea spiked with questionable gnome brandy, watching fireflies blink over the now egg-littered battlefield. “You know,” Twig said, “you’re not half bad… for a lawn ornament with control issues.” “And you’re not completely insufferable,” Barnaby replied, raising a tiny toast. “Just ninety percent.” They clinked teacups. Peace was declared. Sort of. Every year since, they’ve kept the tradition alive—a new Egg War each spring, escalating in chaos and creativity. And though the garden suffers for it, the residents agree on one thing: Nothing brings a community together like petty rivalry, surprise bees, and an emotionally unstable toad with a grudge.     Epilogue: The Legend Grows Years passed. Seasons turned. The garden bloomed, withered, bloomed again. Children came and went, occasionally stumbling across a glittery egg tucked beneath a fern or a suspiciously sarcastic toad loitering by the compost heap. But the legend… oh, the legend remained. Barnaby Thistlebum and Twig the Sprite became something of a seasonal myth—two mischievous forces of nature bound by rivalry, respect, and an unhealthy obsession with outwitting one another via painted eggs. Each spring, the garden braced for their antics like a tavern bracing for karaoke night: with mild dread, popcorn, and a first-aid kit. The gnomes began betting on who would “win” each year. The woodland creatures organized viewing parties (squirrels made excellent commentators, albeit biased). And the bees? Well, they unionized. You can only be used as a prank so many times before demanding dental coverage. Somewhere beneath the oldest oak in the garden, there now rests a small, moss-covered plaque. No one remembers who placed it there, but it reads simply: “In memory of the Great Egg War: Where chaos bloomed, laughter echoed, and dignity was lightly poached.” Barnaby still roams the garden. Occasionally seen sipping dandelion wine, crafting decoy eggs that smell like existential dread, or mentoring a new generation of prank-happy gnomelings. Twig? She visits now and then—always unannounced, always glitter-bombing the bird bath, and always with a wicked grin. And every Easter, without fail, a new egg appears in the center of the garden. Just one. Perfectly painted. Strategically placed. Containing, perhaps, a note, a tiny riddle, or something that meows. No one knows who leaves it. Everyone knows who it’s from. And the game? It’s never really over.     Bring the Mischief Home Love the tale of Barnaby Thistlebum and the Great Egg War? Bring a piece of the magic into your world with our exclusive “The Easter Gnome’s Secret Stash” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—available now on Unfocussed. From quirky gifts to seasonal décor, there’s something for every mischievous heart: 🧵 Wall Tapestries – Bring the garden mischief to life on your walls 🖼️ Canvas Prints – Vibrant, whimsical, and gallery-ready 👜 Tote Bags – Perfect for egg hunts or chaotic grocery runs 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little mischief this Easter 📓 Spiral Notebooks – For planning your own egg-centric escapades Shop the full collection now at shop.unfocussed.com and embrace your inner trickster.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Tempest of Taurus

The Fracture Before the stars were sewn into the heavens, before breath had found a name, the Bull stood alone at the edge of creation. A beast born not of flesh, but of force—of element, echo, and eternity. His body was split from the moment of his awakening: half of him blazed with volcanic wrath, molten rivers carving scars across a horned brow; the other half grew with the quiet pulse of life, moss-covered and breathing, rooted in stars and soil alike. He did not know time, only motion. He walked across the void as if it were pasture, his hooves forging galaxies in his wake. Wherever he passed, dual realms unfurled: forests that smoldered with flame, rivers that ran both steam and starlight, skies that trembled under his silent roar. But the Bull—he was not whole. He was a tempest trapped in duality, torn between destruction and birth, fury and forgiveness. The gods who made him had long disappeared, leaving no answer to his agony. He became myth before the worlds had names, and his suffering was written into the bones of every planet he forged. In one world, where the blue glowed too fiercely and the soil sang with sorrow, he stopped. For the first time since the First Spark, he folded his legs beneath him and lay still. The fire in his left eye dimmed. The vines along his right shoulder whispered to the sky. And the stars came closer to listen. It was then he spoke—not with voice, but with gravity. A soundless, resonant sorrow echoed across the sky: “I am the fracture. I am the seed and the scorch.” From his tears bloomed the first mortals—flawed, divided, beautiful—each carrying a sliver of his war inside them. Some burned. Some grew. Most did both. As time passed, they built temples to his fury and songs to his grace. They did not understand he was neither god nor demon—but a mirror. A reminder. A wound that shaped the universe. Yet something stirred in him as the people danced under twin moons, as they painted their skin in ash and pollen, as they whispered his name not in fear, but in reverence: Taurun. The Tempest. The Eternal. And in that reverence, he felt the first hint of peace—a flicker. A beginning. But peace, like fire, must be earned. The Reckoning Centuries passed like drifting embers across the void, and still the Bull lay beneath the twin moons, half-coiled in forest, half-encased in flame. Civilizations rose and fell in the shadow of his slumber. Priests walked barefoot across obsidian fields to whisper their dreams into the cracks of his scorched side. Lovers carved promises into the bark of the trees that grew from his ribs. And children, born of stardust and sweat, played beneath the branches of his mane without fear. Yet still he did not rise. The gods, forgotten or fled, had left him as their final parable. The Bull, the Broken One, whose duality mirrored the soul of all things. But the mortals began to forget that duality was not a punishment—it was a path. And when they forgot, they tried to cleanse what made them whole. They built fires to burn away their roots. They razed the forests to tame the chaos. They crowned kings who spoke only with fire and banished those who still listened to the leaves. In time, they split themselves as the Bull had once been split—not by gods, but by choice. It was then that Taurun stirred. His eye of flame re-ignited like a dying star reborn, casting shadows across the constellations. The leaves in his fur trembled. The air thickened. And from deep within the earth, a rumble that had no source or direction rose—a pulse, ancient and undeniable. He rose not in anger, but necessity. His hooves cracked the crust of the world. His breath shook the oceans. Above him, the sky split open—not with lightning, but with memory. Visions fell like rain: of every child who had sung in his forest, every prayer spoken in firelight, every soul who had ever dared to hold both grief and wonder in the same heart. He roared, not to destroy, but to remind. And the world listened. Torrents of rain fell where deserts had claimed dominion. Forests rose in the wake of ash. And where fire had consumed, life returned—not in defiance, but in unity. The Bull’s body was no longer divided, but fused: flames that fed the soil, branches that danced with sparks. He was no longer half-this or half-that. He was wholeness born of fracture. And for the first time since the stars had learned to sing, Taurun smiled—not with lips, but with silence. The silence that follows a storm. The silence that speaks of balance restored. The mortals, changed, carried this new myth into their bones. They built no more temples. They planted forests instead. And they taught their children that to burn was not to be evil, and to grow was not to be weak. That they, like Taurun, held both fury and forest in their chest. And that was their magic. The Bull walked into the night sky then, his body dissolving into constellations, into stories, into the veins of every living thing. He had been fire. He had been forest. And now, he was forever. Look to the sky when your heart breaks in two. You will see him—horns arched across the heavens, stars tangled in his mane, the Tempest watching, waiting, reminding you: You are not broken. You are becoming.     Epilogue: The Silence Between Stars Long after the Bull dissolved into constellation and legend, long after the final embers cooled beneath roots of newly-grown trees, a quiet question still drifts between the galaxies: “What remains when the gods are gone, and the world must choose for itself?” The answer is not written in stone, nor hidden in fire. It is not carried by prophets or preserved in parchment. It lives in the flicker of contradiction—where kindness meets anger, where grief dances with joy, where you break, and from the cracks something green begins to grow. That is where the Bull lives now—not in temples, not in stars, but in the moment a hand clenches in rage, and chooses instead to open. In the way we burn, and still love. In how we destroy, and then plant anew. Some say you can still hear his breath in the wind between seasons, feel his footsteps in the shifting soil beneath your bare feet. Others say he is simply a myth—an old tale born of cosmic need. But if you ever feel both too much and not enough, too fierce and too fragile—remember: You are the storm and the soil. You are not lost. You are not alone. And in the silence between stars, Taurun watches. Not as judge. But as kin.     Bring the Bull Home If the story of Taurun stirred something within you—if you too carry fire and forest inside your bones—carry this myth into your space. Our “Tempest of Taurus” image is available in a range of high-quality products designed to keep the dual magic alive in your everyday world. Celestial Tapestry: Drape your space in myth. This vibrant fabric wall art makes any room feel like a portal to the stars. Metal Print: A bold, gallery-quality display that captures the fire and forest in hyper-vivid clarity. Glossy. Iconic. Immortal. Jigsaw Puzzle: Piece together the myth yourself—perfect for quiet moments of reflection and those who savor complexity. Tote Bag: Carry the tempest with you—ideal for book lovers, market wanderers, and those who walk between worlds. Coffee Mug: Sip the story. A daily ritual infused with myth, strength, and the serenity of celestial balance. View all available formats here → Your walls. Your rituals. Your myth.