Mini Kraken, Major Attitude

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.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Nightlight Watcher

Of Gnomes and Nocturnal Duties Once upon a time—or at least some time after the invention of indoor plumbing—there lived a gnome named Wimbley Plopfoot. He wasn't your average garden-variety gnome with a fishing rod and a beer gut carved into ceramic. No, Wimbley was different. He had a job. A real one. He was the Official Nightlight Watcher of the Greater Underbed Region. Each night, as soon as the humans upstairs had done whatever it is humans do before bed (some combination of teeth brushing, doomscrolling, and wondering if that leftover cheese was still good), Wimbley would shuffle into place. His soft floral nightcap drooped charmingly over one eye. His matching pajamas whispered of lavender fields and accidental fashion. And in his arms, he carried Bartholomew the Bear, a stuffed animal with a suspiciously judgmental expression. "Ready?" Wimbley would ask each night, though Bartholomew never replied. He wasn’t enchanted or alive or magical. He was just there. Judging. Like most bears, to be honest. The ritual was simple: sit beside the child’s bed, hold the sign that said GOOD NIGHT, and exude an aura of safety, warmth, and vaguely herbal overtones. But on one particularly unremarkable Tuesday, something went wrong. Wimbley blinked slowly and noticed the glow from the nightlight was... flickering. "Oh no," he muttered, his gnomish voice the auditory equivalent of chamomile tea. "Not again." The last time a nightlight malfunctioned, the kid dreamt of sentient broccoli staging a coup in the kitchen. It took three dreamcatchers, a whispering incense stick, and a sock puppet therapist to undo the trauma. Wimbley waddled over to the outlet, groaning like only someone with knees older than democracy can groan. He tugged on the plug, then tapped the nightlight. Nothing. He blew on it. Still nothing. Bartholomew watched silently, probably judging Wimbley’s technique. "Guess I’m going in," Wimbley sighed, lifting up a loose floorboard to reveal a swirling, glittery tunnel labeled ‘Electrical Realm: Authorized Gnomes Only’. With a resigned pat to Bartholomew’s plush head, he dove in. The world twisted. The smell of burnt toast and old batteries filled his nostrils. The tunnel spun like a glittery toilet flush until he landed with a loud plop in a place that looked suspiciously like the inside of a lava lamp factory run by raccoons. “Alright,” Wimbley muttered. “Let’s fix a nightlight before reality unravels.” The Glowening Wimbley adjusted his pajama collar—a ridiculous move given that he had just nose-dived into an interdimensional subspace powered by toddler anxieties and expired batteries. The realm was brighter than he liked and smelled vaguely of ozone, dryer sheets, and existential dread. “Welcome to the Department of Glow Maintenance,” said a chipper, floating orb with a clipboard and tiny reading glasses balanced somehow on what could only be described as ‘eyelid energy.’ Wimbley squinted. “You again?” The orb blinked. “Ah, yes, Mister Plopfoot. You’ve been flagged before for ‘unauthorized screwdriver use’ and ‘insulting a power surge.’” “That surge started it,” Wimbley grumbled. “It zapped me. Twice.” The orb made a noncommittal whirring sound and summoned a translucent doorway that shimmered with neon labels: “Filament Forest,” “Circuit Swamp,” “Lightbulb Graveyard,” and—Wimbley’s destination—“Low-Glow Repair Intake.” He stepped through the archway, which instantly deposited him in a massive glowing cavern filled with floating fuses and a suspicious number of traffic cones. Gnome engineers in tiny hardhats shouted about wattage while sipping glow-stick martinis. “Oi, Wimbley!” called a scraggly figure with a clipboard larger than himself. “Yer here about the shimmer drop in Sector Snore-Alpha?” “Yes, it’s flickering like a caffeinated firefly,” Wimbley said, brushing lint off his beard. “That’s not right. Nightlight shimmer should be smooth—like pudding with ambition.” “Exactly.” The two gnomes exchanged nods and dove into the technical talk: amperage, dream-consistency thresholds, and a very heated debate about whether a teddy bear should count as an emotional stabilizer or a distraction-based sedative. Finally, they found the issue. A single pixel-sized microfuse had been corrupted by a forgotten nightmare from 2006. A common occurrence, apparently. Wimbley replaced it using a tweezers made from solidified bedtime stories and sighed in relief as the glow returned to buttery-soft normalcy. “Tell Bartholomew he still owes me five hugs,” said the scraggly gnome, tipping his hat. Wimbley smiled and stepped back into the tunnel, feeling the warmth of restored luminescence pulse through the air like a lullaby hummed by an overworked celestial intern. He landed back in the child’s bedroom with a puff of glitter. The nightlight glowed strong and steady. The child slept peacefully, one leg somehow entirely out of the blanket (a move that still terrified demons). Bartholomew remained exactly where Wimbley left him—arms open, judgmental gaze unchanged. “Mission complete,” Wimbley whispered, settling into his usual post and lifting the GOOD NIGHT sign once more. The room was safe. The glow was perfect. And somewhere deep beneath the floorboards, a raccoon technician filed another complaint against unauthorized glitter leakage. Wimbley didn't care. His job was done. Until tomorrow night… Fade to dreams.     Epilogue: Glow On, You Little Weirdo Years passed—or maybe just three minutes, depending on how time works when you’re shaped like a novelty lawn ornament and run on ambient moonlight. Wimbley Plopfoot, now promoted to Senior Glow Liaison, still kept his post beneath the bed of the now slightly older child (who occasionally referred to him as “that weird bedtime elf” in her diary). Bartholomew? Still judging. Still plush. Still undefeated in every staring contest known to plushdom. The nightlight, fully operational thanks to advanced gnome engineering and perhaps a little illegal wizard glue, shone on like a beacon of soft defiance against the creeping chaos of bedtime fears. Monsters had long since relocated—something about zoning permits and gluten-free snack shortages. Wimbley didn’t mind. He had everything he needed: a slightly crinkled bedtime schedule, a suspiciously sentient robe, and the unspoken admiration of the underbed community, who once voted him “Most Likely to Stop a Panic Dream with Only a Side-Eye.” And every night, as the stars blinked on and parents exhaled over baby monitors, Wimbley held up his sign with one simple message: GOOD NIGHT And if you happened to peek beneath your bed and see a tiny figure with a beard longer than your to-do list—just smile. He’s got this. You can sleep now. Glow on, dreamers. Glow on.     Bring a Little Glow Home If you felt a spark of warmth (or sheer gnomish absurdity) from The Nightlight Watcher, you can now bring that same cozy magic into your real-life bedtime ritual. Whether you're decorating a nursery, leveling up your nap nook, or just need a judgmental teddy on fabric—there’s a dreamy little something for you: 🧵 Wall Tapestry – Transform any room with a soft, storytelling glow. 🛏️ Throw Pillow – Snuggle into dreamland with a gnome-approved cushion. 🧸 Fleece Blanket – The official blanket of Bartholomew’s emotional support protocols. 🌙 Duvet Cover – Gnome-certified for maximum bedtime enchantment. Shop the full collection and let Wimbley Plopfoot stand guard over your dreams—no batteries or bureaucratic raccoons required.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Elder of the Enchanted Path

In the heart of the Verdant Woodlands—just past the babbling creek that sounds suspiciously like it's gossiping—stood a moss-covered stump known only to a few as the “Proposal Post.” It was not used for mail, mind you. It was used for moments. Grand, clumsy, blush-colored moments. And it was here that the Elder of the Enchanted Path, a gnome named Thistlewhip Fernwhistle (though friends just called him “Thish”), had decided to make his move. Thish was old. Not old as in creaky or cranky, but old as in "once dated a dryad who turned into a willow mid-conversation." He’d seen thirty-three thousand springs, or so he claimed—though most suspected it was closer to seven hundred. Either way, age hadn't dulled his sense of style. He wore a robe that shimmered faintly like beetle wings, boots made from repurposed pinecone scales, and a floppy hat stitched with kiss-marks collected over centuries. No one knew how he got them. No one asked. Springtime always made him... itchy. Not in a hay-fever kind of way, but in a soul-thirsty, heart-tingly kind of way. The kind that makes one write poetry on mushroom caps or serenade chipmunks who didn't ask for it. And this year, the itch had a name: Briarrose O’Bloom. Briarrose was the head florist of the forest—a dryad with curls like cherry blossoms and a laugh that sounded like rain on tulip petals. She ran “Petal Provocateur,” a scandalously delightful flower cart where the bouquets were arranged to match your deepest, possibly even your naughtiest, desires. She once made a tulip arrangement so evocative that a centaur fell in love with himself. Thish had admired her from afar (well, from behind a tree… regularly), but today was the day he would step into the light. Today he would declare his affection—with a bouquet of his own making. He had spent the last three days crafting it. Not just picking flowers—no, this was an event. He had bartered for moon-drenched daisies, stolen a honeysuckle kiss from a sleeping bee, and convinced a peony to open two weeks early by reciting scandalous limericks. At last, the bouquet was done. Full of pinks, purples, blushes and scents that could render even the grumpiest toad euphoric, it was bound with a ribbon made from spider-silk and a whisper of thyme. He stepped out onto the mossy trail, bouquet in hand, heart doing cartwheels. Ahead, the cart glowed beneath hanging lanterns, and there she was—Briarrose—flirting with a hedgehog in a bowtie (he was a loyal customer). She laughed, tossing her curls, and Thish forgot how legs worked for a second. He approached. Slowly. Carefully. Like one might approach a wild unicorn or a particularly judgmental goose. “Ahem,” he said, in a voice that was far too high for his body and startled a nearby mushroom into fainting. Briarrose turned. Her eyes—violet and wise—softened. “Oh, Elder Thish. What a surprise.” “It’s… a spring gift. A bouquet. I made it. For you,” he said, offering it with a trembling hand and a hopeful smile. “And also, if possible… a proposal.” She blinked. “A proposal?” “For a walk!” he added quickly, cheeks blooming with embarrassment. “A walk. Through the woods. Together. No... wedlock unless mutually discussed in twenty years.” She laughed. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But like bells dancing in the wind. “Thish Fernwhistle,” she said, taking the bouquet and breathing it in. “This might be the most ridiculous, romantic thing I’ve seen all season.” Then she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and whispered: “Pick me up at dusk. Wear something scandalous.” And just like that, spring came alive. Dusk in the Verdant Woodlands was a sensual thing. The sky flushed lavender, tree branches stretched like lazy lovers, and the air smelled of sap, honeysuckle, and just the faintest hint of cedar smoke and temptation. Thish, true to his word, had dressed scandalously. Well, for a gnome. His robe had been swapped for a vest stitched from foxglove petals, his boots polished until the pinecone scales gleamed, and beneath his famous hat he’d tucked a sprig of lavender “just in case things got steamy.” Briarrose had outdone herself. She wore a gown made entirely of woven vine and blooming jasmine that shifted with her every breath. Butterflies seemed to orbit her like moons. A glowbug landed on her shoulder and promptly fainted. “You look like trouble,” she said with a grin, offering her arm. “You look like a good reason to misbehave,” Thish replied, taking it. They walked. Past willows humming lullabies. Past frogs playing banjo. Past a couple of raccoons necking behind a toadstool and pretending not to notice. The mood was thick with pollen and possibility. Eventually, they reached a clearing lit by floating lanterns. In the middle stood a picnic blanket so elaborate it might have violated several zoning laws. There was elderberry wine. Sugarroot pastries. Chocolate truffles shaped like acorns. Even a bowl of “Consent Cookies”—each one labeled with messages like “Kiss?”, “Flirt?”, “Get Weird?” and “More Wine First?” “You planned this?” Briarrose asked, raising a brow. “I panicked earlier and overcompensated,” Thish admitted. “There’s also a backup string quartet of badgers if things go awkward.” “That’s... kind of perfect.” They sat. They sipped. They nibbled on everything but the cookies—those required mutual cookie signals. The conversation meandered through poetry, pollination, failed love spells, and one deeply embarrassing story involving a unicorn and a very poorly labeled bottle of rosewater. And then—just when the air was perfectly still, when the last rays of sun kissed the tree branches—Briarrose leaned in. “You know,” she said softly, her eyes gleaming, “I’ve been arranging bouquets for half the forest. All kinds. Lust, longing, revenge-flirtations, awkward apologies. But no one’s ever made one for me like yours.” Thish blinked. “Oh. Well. I suppose—” She placed a single finger on his lips. “Shhh. Less talking.” Then she kissed him. Long and slow. The kind of kiss that made the wind pause, the fireflies turn up their glow, and at least three nearby squirrels applaud. When they finally pulled back, both were flushed and slightly breathless. “So…” Thish grinned. “Do I get a second date? Or at least a sensual bouquet review?” She giggled. “You’re already trending in the fern networks.” And under the soft twilight, two hearts—older than most, sillier than many—bloomed like springtime had written them into a love story all its own.     Epilogue: The Bloom Continues Spring turned to summer, and the forest, well—it talked. Not gossip, exactly. More like gleeful speculation. A fox claimed she’d seen Thish and Briarrose dancing barefoot beneath a raincloud. A squirrel swore he spotted them picnicking nude in a tulip field (highly unconfirmed). And a particularly smug robin reported hearing giggles echoing from inside a hollow tree. All we know for certain is this: the “Proposal Post” now had a permanent bouquet atop it, refreshed every full moon by unseen hands. Briarrose’s flower cart began offering a new line called “Thistlewhips”—chaotic little bundles of love, passion, and one wildcard bloom that may or may not inspire spontaneous foot rubs. And Thish? He wrote a collection of romantic haikus titled “Petals and Puns”, available only in bark-scroll editions, and only if you asked the badger librarian very, very nicely. They never married—because they didn’t need to. Love, in their part of the world, wasn’t something to bind. It was something to bloom, gently and wildly, year after year. And every spring, if you walk the Enchanted Path just after dusk, you might find two figures laughing beneath the lanterns—sharing cookies, kisses, and the occasional mischievous wink at the moon. May you too find someone who brings you flowers you didn’t know you needed… and kisses you like they were written in the bark of your bones.     🌿 Explore the Artwork This story was inspired by the original artwork "Elder of the Enchanted Path", available exclusively through our image archive. Bring home a bit of woodland whimsy with fine art prints, digital downloads, and licensing options. ➡️ View the artwork in the Unfocussed Archive

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Yetiboo and the Silent Rage

The Cold Shoulder of Destiny Far beyond the howling peaks of the Cringecrack Mountains, where the wind screamed like unpaid interns and snowflakes fell like passive-aggressive emails, there lived a creature whose name was whispered in ski lodges and overpriced chalet spas with reverent fear. They called him Yetiboo. Standing a mighty 1’8” tall (2’2” if you included the static-charged fluff halo), Yetiboo was the frostbitten embodiment of silent rage. With fur as white as HR-approved rage and eyes the color of cold brew regret, he had spent years perfecting a glare so powerful it could curdle oat milk at 300 feet. Yetiboo wasn’t born mad. He was sculpted by life’s little injustices: the betrayal of lukewarm cocoa, snowballs with ice cores, and worst of all—being called “snuggly.” “I’m not snuggly,” he hissed once into a void that did not respond. “I’m a harbinger of wintry fury.” But no one listened. The locals threw marshmallows at him. Influencers tried to put flower crowns on his head. A TikTok elf once captioned a video #YetiBabyVibes while pretending to boop his nose. She hasn’t been seen since. Allegedly. On this particularly snowy Tuesday, Yetiboo had reached his emotional saturation point. Snowflakes fell, uninvited, into his ears. His tiny feet were frozen. He had been ghosted by the Northern Lights (again). And someone—some heartless mountain soul—had taken the last peppermint bark from the communal glacier fridge. “I am done,” he growled, plopping down into the snow with all the fury of a sitcom character whose favorite mug just shattered mid-monologue. “From this moment forward, I shall speak to no one. Not a soul. The mountain will tremble with my profound, poetic silence.” He folded his arms. He scowled. A passing snow hare made eye contact and immediately fled to therapy. “Let them tremble,” Yetiboo whispered to the wind, which respectfully carried the message 600 miles south to a confused coffee shop in lower Glacialia. And thus began the Great Sulk of the North—a silent protest so intense, so frostbitten with feeling, that the temperature in the surrounding three valleys dropped two degrees just to match his vibe. Unbeknownst to him, his silence had consequences. Big ones. Cosmic, absurd, and definitely overblown ones. Because when the most dramatic yeti in existence goes emotionally offline… the mountain listens. Avalanche of Emotion As Yetiboo sat in the snow, radiating enough silent loathing to frost over a lava vent, strange things began to happen. First, the icicles on the nearby pine trees began to hum—a low, mournful tune like the soundtrack to a documentary about abandoned mittens. Then the clouds gathered above, thickening into dramatic, swirling layers like a sky having a breakdown. Thunder cracked, somewhere far off. A raven dropped a dead flower at his feet. No one knew where the flower came from. It was August last time anyone saw a bloom around here. The mountain was responding. Unwittingly—or perhaps divinely—Yetiboo had tapped into the ancient magic of *Glacial Gloom*, an emotional pressure system said to be triggered when someone is just too over it to speak. Mountain legends told of a time, centuries ago, when a teen frost elf with bad bangs and a complicated situationship sulked so hard, she froze an entire fjord. That elf’s name was whispered only in wine cellars and seasonal affective disorder support groups. Now, Yetiboo was the new vessel of that power. Elsewhere, across the frosted realm, things began to unravel. Weather alerts popped up on enchanted mirrors. “EMOTIONAL BLIZZARD WARNING: EXPECT FLURRIES OF DRAMATIC STARES.” A group of woodland creatures canceled their winter talent show because the tension in the air was just too much. Back at base camp, the Winter Council—a committee of ancient creatures who wore velvet robes and argued about snowflake purity—called an emergency meeting. They gathered in the Chamber of Chilled Disapproval and reviewed the footage. “It’s worse than we feared,” sighed Frostmaw, the 700-year-old moose with a monocle. “He’s not just brooding—he’s internalizing.” “We need to act fast,” said a sentient snow owl named Beatrice. “Before he ice-blocks the entire emotional spectrum.” So they did what any responsible, mystical governing body would do. They sent a goat. But not just any goat. This was Tilda, a sassy, frost-hardened emotional support goat with a nose ring, a degree in interspecies mediation, and zero tolerance for silent treatment. Tilda clomped up the mountain with purpose, hooves crunching snow like punctuation marks in an angry Yelp review. When she reached Yetiboo, she didn't speak. She simply sat. Beside him. In the snow. Matching his silence with one of her own. It was a stand-off. The world's fluffiest Mexican standoff. Three hours passed. A snowflake landed on Tilda's horn. Yetiboo's eye twitched. She didn’t flinch. Eventually, he cracked. “They took my peppermint bark,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “They left the label. Just… just the label.” Tilda nodded solemnly. “Savages.” “And Dorble the fox keeps tagging me in memes.” “Unacceptable.” “I have layers, Tilda. Like—like a rage parfait.” “Delicious and unstable. Got it.” And just like that, the storm began to fade. The clouds pulled back like curtains at the end of a moody one-man play. The icicles quieted. Somewhere, a harp seal exhaled in relief. The mountain, now sated by the release of pent-up sass, settled into a peaceful snowfall. Yetiboo stood up. Shook out his fur. Cleared his throat. “I am not okay,” he declared with pride. “But I am dramatically functional.” “That’s all we can ask,” Tilda said, handing him a backup chocolate square from her saddlebag. “Now come on. There's a rage yoga class at 6 and you’re already behind on your breathing resentment exercises.” And so, the Great Sulk ended—not with a tantrum, but with solidarity, snacks, and one very exhausted snow goat who deserved hazard pay. As for Yetiboo, he would go on to channel his silent rage into expressive dance, write a memoir titled “Cold Inside: One Yeti’s Journey Through Emotional Permafrost,” and become a minor celebrity in niche arctic wellness circles. But sometimes, when the wind howls just right… you can still hear his tiny voice echoing across the snowdrifts: “I said I wasn’t SNUGGLY.”     Epilogue: Fluff, Fame, and Frozen Boundaries Following the emotional meteorology incident now referred to by the locals as “The Great Sulking,” Yetiboo became something of a minor deity in the cozy corners of snow-covered subcultures. He didn’t ask for the fame. He didn’t want the fame. But he did enjoy being left alone at cafés while sipping glacier-melt tea from his custom mug that read: "Dead Inside, But Make It Cozy." The mountain, meanwhile, was far more peaceful. Emotionally stable, even. There were fewer spontaneous ice spikes. Fewer cursed snowballs. The Weather Channel (North Edition) named him their honorary "Emo Pressure Front of the Year." And while he never fully embraced the whole “cuddly mascot” narrative, he did allow one company to put his likeness on a throw blanket—as long as it came with a disclaimer: "Do not approach before coffee." Tilda became his manager. The goat, naturally, negotiated a merch deal, a podcast guest spot, and a branded hoodie line titled “Frosted But Fierce.” But deep down—beneath the layers of fluff, fame, and very professionally curated social detachment—Yetiboo never forgot who he was: A cold-hearted legend with a warm center... that you absolutely should not touch without permission. And if you're ever on that mountain and the wind suddenly shifts, chillier than it should be, and you feel like you're being silently judged—you are. He sees you. He disapproves. And he’s sitting just out of frame, arms crossed, waiting for you to say something cringe so he can roll his enormous blue eyes. Legend says he’s still not snuggly. And that’s exactly how he likes it.     Need a Little Silent Rage in Your Life? If you’ve ever felt personally attacked by weather or emotionally represented by a tiny yeti with a death stare, good news: Yetiboo is now available in huggable, wearable, and displayable form. Wrap yourself in pure frostbitten mood with a cozy coral fleece blanket or let your guests know what vibe they’re walking into with a framed acrylic print. Add some sass to your seating with a squishy throw pillow, haul your emotional baggage in this unapologetic tote bag, or let his silent judgment hang proudly from your wall with a full-sized tapestry. He's moody. He’s fluffy. He’s merch-ready. Channel the chill. Carry the rage.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Morning Drip

Glazed & Unphased It was barely 8:07 a.m. and already the pastry box was feeling... sticky. The bakery was quiet. Too quiet. A single ray of warm sunlight slipped between the blinds, landing directly on the plump, sugar-dusted body of Donny Cream. Round. Golden. Fluffy in all the right places. And leaking like a broken promise. “Mmm,” Donny moaned, eyes half-lidded, voice thick and velvety. “Is it warm in here or is it just... me?” A nearby coffee mug trembled on the counter, horrified. “You’re leaking again,” it said, voice shaky. “That’s your third time this morning.” Donny let a slow stream of vanilla custard dribble from his mouth like he was proud of it. “I’m not leaking, sweetheart,” he said with a smile. “I’m giving.” The mug backed up slightly. “I didn’t sign up for this,” it muttered. “I’m decaf.” Donny smirked. He loved a nervous cup. “You think I chose this life?” he asked, arching his brow bun. “One day you're dough with dreams, the next you're filled to the brim, powdered like a runway model, and left on a napkin to moan at strangers before noon.” He let out a long sigh and another soft ooze of custard. It puddled below him, warm and inappropriate. “Stop it!” cried a nearby croissant, shielding its flaky layers. “The kids come in at 9!” Donny just licked his lips. “Then they’ll learn what real filling looks like.” The toaster let out a judgmental ding. “You know they’re gonna eat you, right?” the mug asked, its handle trembling. “That’s the dream, sugarcup,” Donny said. “To be desired, devoured, and deeply regretted. I’m a pastry with a purpose. I wasn’t baked to be wholesome. I was baked to break souls.” Another slow stream of custard slipped from his center. A gasp came from the tea bag drawer. “I’ve seen enough,” said the muffin tin, covering its cavities. “This is a family brunch spot.” Donny didn’t flinch. “Then they better bring napkins. Because Daddy’s dripping, and I’m only halfway thawed.” The napkin beneath him was soaked. He was unapologetic. He was uncensored. He was… The Morning Drip. Cream of the Crop By the time the customers started trickling in—bright-eyed, hungover, and clutching iced lattes like rosaries—the bakery was already a crime scene of innuendo. Donny Cream was sprawled on his napkin like a Greek god made of sugar and shame. His filling had breached containment hours ago. It was no longer a leak. It was a flood. A warm, glistening testament to indulgence and poor decision-making. “You gonna clean that up?” asked the espresso machine, watching the puddle spread like gossip in a small town. “Why?” Donny purred. “Let 'em slip. Let 'em fall face-first into me. I’ve ruined better diets than this.” A gluten-free muffin shook its head from the display shelf. “You’re disgusting.” “I’m delicious,” Donny corrected. “There’s a difference.” The bell above the door jingled. A human entered, scanning the glass case with innocent, naive hunger. The kind of hunger that didn’t know what it was about to awaken. Donny licked powdered sugar from his lip. “Oh yeah... he’s gonna pick me.” “No way,” whispered a snobby blueberry scone. “You’re literally oozing onto the counter.” “Exactly,” said Donny. “I’m prepped. I’m provocative. I’m ready to be tonged.” There was a pause. The coffee mug groaned into its ceramic palm. The customer pointed. “That one. The creamy one. He looks... intense.” Donny shuddered. “Yes. Yes I do.” Gloved tongs lifted him gently. He moaned dramatically, fully aware of the performance. A little extra cream spurted out onto the glass. “You’re the reason brunch is banned in some states,” muttered the plain bagel. Donny was placed in a wax paper bag, his voice muffled but still smug. “Goodbye, darlings. Remember me not as I was—but as I dripped.” The door closed. Silence fell. “That was the filthiest pastry I’ve ever seen,” the mug whispered. “I think I need to be refrigerated,” said the Danish. From the back of the kitchen, the churros huddled together for emotional support. The donut holes blinked, questioning their existence. And somewhere in the bakery, an oven preheated slowly... preparing to birth the next generation of filled, frosted deviance. Because Donny Cream was gone—but the drip? The drip lived on. Long live The Morning Drip.     Epilogue: Just a Little Powdered Memory The napkin remained. Crinkled, stained, and lightly trembling in the breeze of a closing door, it lay like a fallen flag—marking the spot where Donny Cream once oozed with reckless abandon. A custard ghost clung to the fibers. The powdered sugar lingered in the air like soft trauma. The bakery had moved on. Kind of. New pastries came. Younger. Firmer. Less... emotionally unstable. But none of them filled the void Donny left—physically or metaphorically. The coffee mug rarely spoke now. He just stared out the window, handle cocked slightly to the left like he was waiting for a ride that never came. “He was too much,” whispered a croissant one morning. “He was everything,” replied a jelly-filled quietly, squeezing its sides in tribute. No one dared use that napkin again. It stayed right there, framed by streaks of custard and the weight of memories. A sacred spot. A warning. A legend. Because somewhere out there—maybe in the hands of a hungover college student, maybe half-eaten in the backseat of a rideshare—Donny Cream lives on. His filling… his attitude… his unapologetic drip. And as long as there are glazes to crack and custards to spill, he’ll never be truly gone. They say time heals all wounds. But some leaks? Some leaks never dry.     Still feeling the drip? Donny Cream lives on in all his sticky glory with The Morning Drip collection—perfect for kitchens, bedrooms, brunch spots, and anywhere food shame is welcome. Immortalize his creamy legacy with a framed print, an unapologetically shiny acrylic print, or keep him close on a throw pillow or tote bag. And for those with a flair for awkward greetings, yes—he’s also available as a greeting card. Just don’t say we didn’t warn you.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Cheese Me Daddy

Melt With Me It was a late night in the diner. Neon lights buzzed like old secrets and the grill was still warm—hot enough to bring the meat sweats, cool enough to pretend it wasn’t weird. That’s when he strutted in… oozing cheddar and confidence. His name was Big Chedd. Bun golden, patty thick, and a cheese drip that could make a vegan reconsider their entire identity. Eyes half-lidded with the calm of someone who’s been grilled on both sides—and liked it. “You hungry, sugar?” he asked, his voice low and velvety, like hot grease on Formica. No one answered. They couldn’t. The entire fridge aisle had gone silent. Even the pickles held their breath. Big Chedd leaned on the ketchup pump like it owed him money. “I see you eyeballin’ the melt,” he said, grinning. “Well go ahead. Take a bite. I won’t flinch.” Across the counter, a lonely grilled cheese blushed so hard it curled its crusts inward. The bottle of ranch ranch-dropped from the shelf in shock. Big Chedd sauntered across the cutting board with the swagger of a meal that knew it was bad for you and planned to be worse. “I’m not like those fast food types. I take my time. Low heat. Long cook. Every. Single. Drip.” He winked. A thick ribbon of cheddar slid down his patty like it had paid rent to be there. He licked it back into place with a slow, smug curl of his sesame-topped lip. “Tell me what you want,” he said, inches from the plate’s edge. “You want a clean meal? Or you want the real thing? You want calorie counts or carnal cravings? Lettuce behave, or lose all control?” The plate was moist now. Moist with fear. Moist with want. Moist with... mayonnaise? Tomato gasped. “Is he… melting on purpose?” Lettuce trembled. “Oh he knows exactly what he’s doing.” And he did. Because Big Chedd wasn’t just a burger. He was a moment. A fantasy. A food group you don’t talk about in public. He was thick. He was juicy. He was... Daddy. “Now,” he growled, lowering himself slowly onto the bun like a greasy love note, “Who’s ready to be unwrapped?” Greased Lightning The bun hit the plate with a heavy thwap, like a drumroll at a burlesque show. Big Chedd was now fully assembled—top to bottom, lettuce to lust. He oozed seduction, and cheddar. Mostly cheddar. He spread his buns just enough to let the steam out. “You ever been with a burger that drips twice before the first bite?” he whispered, his voice like a slow sizzle on cast iron. “’Cause I’m the kind of mess you lick off your fingers and don’t apologize for.” The fridge door creaked open slowly. Milk peeped out and immediately went sour. The hot dog buns blushed so hard they went stale. Even the coleslaw slumped in its Tupperware like, “Why even try?” Big Chedd flexed his patty, meat glistening with confidence and a little bacon fat. “I don’t do diets. I do damage,” he said, with a wink so greasy it left a streak on the air. The ketchup bottle trembled. “Sir… this is a Wendy’s.” “Nah,” Big Chedd smirked. “This is my kitchen now. And I’m about to sauce this place up like a third-date mistake.” He made his move. It was slow. Sensual. Strategic. He rolled toward the edge of the plate, hips swiveling like he’d been flipped by a master griller in a past life. The cheddar clung to him like it didn’t want to say goodbye—stretching long, gooey, unapologetically filthy. Tomato couldn’t watch. Or look away. “He’s... dripping on the floor,” she whispered. “Let him,” said Lettuce. “That’s just how he leaves a mark.” The steak knives rattled in their block. The spatula fainted. And somewhere in the corner, a lonely french fry sobbed quietly into a puddle of aioli. Big Chedd reached the countertop’s edge. He turned back to the others, lip curled, cheese hanging low and dangerous. “I’m not just a snack,” he growled. “I’m a full-course regret with extra napkins. And if you can't handle the melt, baby... don’t unwrap the Daddy.” Then he dropped. A slow fall. A fall of legends. The kind of fall usually scored with saxophone and soft lighting. The cheddar stretched one last time like it was saying goodbye to its lover. He landed with a gentle splat, a smear of sauce haloing his resting place like some kind of greasy martyr. Silence. The paper towel roll let out a soft, “Damn.” And that’s how the legend of Big Chedd was born. They say if you listen closely, late at night, you can still hear the sizzle of his patty... and the whisper of a sesame seed bun breathing into your ear— “Cheese me, Daddy.”     Epilogue: Still Melting The grill's gone cold now. The spatulas are resting. The buns are back in their bag, pretending none of it ever happened. But somewhere—between the crisper drawer and expired Greek yogurt—his memory lingers. Big Chedd. The meltiest of them all. The cheddar-slicked Casanova with buns like sunset pillows and a voice like a low burner hum. He wasn’t just a burger. He was a feeling. A fantasy. A full-fat fever dream. Sometimes, late at night, when the fridge light flicks on and the condiments think no one’s watching, you’ll hear it: a soft squish, a faint sizzle, the low groan of a bun remembering what it felt like to be held... tightly. Greasily. Passionately. The lettuce still curls at the thought. The tomato, sliced but not forgotten, writes sonnets in the dark. And the cheese? Oh, the cheese just keeps dripping. Slowly. Longingly. For someone who never cared about napkins or shame. He’s gone, yes. But legends don’t mold. They marinate. And Big Chedd? He’s still melting— —in hearts, in grease traps, and in the wild, spicy dreams of every food that dared to feel.     If Big Chedd left a mark on your heart—and possibly your cholesterol—why not keep him around in all his melty, mouthy glory? Cheese Me Daddy is available now as a steamy framed print for your kitchen, a sizzling metal print for your burger shrine, or—because why the hell not—a ridiculously seductive throw pillow to cuddle between buns. Want to carry him with you like a grilled goddamn secret? There’s even a tote bag so you can bring the Daddy drip everywhere you go. He’s hot. He’s heavy. And he’s ready to be yours.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Pepper Dominatrix

The Grinding Hour The steak lay there—thick, glistening, and just a touch too smug. Marbled in all the right places, it had spent the better part of the day basking in a Himalayan salt rub, thinking itself the main course. Prime cut, ego to match. Then she entered. Heels like toothpicks skewering the hardwood countertop, leather dress tighter than a sous vide seal, and eyes darker than balsamic glaze—Pepper Dominatrix had arrived. Her curves were turned from a finely aged mahogany, her handle slick with tension. She didn’t knock. She never knocked. She just twisted... and ground. The first crackle of fresh pepper sent a shiver through the meat. “Easy there, sweetheart,” it whispered, trying to stay juicy. “You don’t need to be so... rough.” “Oh, but I do,” she purred, grinding harder. A puff of peppercorn dust erupted like a volcanic burst of culinary climax. “You're dry-aged, darling. I’m here to make you wet again.” From across the board, Salt watched, horrified. He was soft, white, and entirely unprepared for this level of heat. A single tear of brine rolled down his metal cheek. “This is... highly unseasoned behavior,” he muttered, clutching his tiny porcelain towel. Pepper leaned in close to the steak, her cap brushing against its seared surface. “You thought you’d get basted and roasted without me? You foolish slab of protein. I don’t just complement flavors—I dominate them.” The steak whimpered. “This isn’t how Gordon Ramsay does it...” She laughed—a deep, smoky cackle that echoed through the pantry. “Ramsay? Please. That man couldn't handle a full grind without crying into his lamb shanks.” With a swirl of her hips and a sprinkle from above, the entire cutting board glistened under her wrath. Butter melted in fearful anticipation. The tongs trembled. Even the red wine glass developed condensation out of sheer intimidation. Then, with the dominance of a chef who knew her flavors and wasn’t afraid to bruise a few egos, she lifted one leg—slowly, deliberately—and planted her stiletto squarely on the steak's surface. A low, buttery moan escaped from beneath her heel. “You’ve been marinating in your own delusions,” she said. “It’s time to taste what real seasoning feels like.” Salt could only look away. He’d seen enough. He was out-shaken, out-spiced... and, dare he admit it... a little turned on. Well Done, Darling The steak sizzled under her heel, juices oozing with submissive obedience. Pepper Dominatrix stood proud, shoulders back, peppercorns crackling across her chest like a seasoning of war medals. The cutting board was no longer a prep station—it was her arena. Her coliseum. Her stage. Salt, paralyzed in the corner, let out a helpless “oh dear” as she reached into her leather spice satchel. Out came her secret weapon: a single, dangerously seductive sachet labeled “Umami Dust™”—illegal in three culinary schools and banned outright by the French. She locked eyes with the steak, who was now glistening, quivering, barely medium rare. “You think you’ve been cooked before?” she snarled. “Darling, I’m about to take you past the smoke point.” With a flick of her wrist, the dust hit the steak in a shimmering cloud of flavor chaos. Notes of soy, mushroom, and something suspiciously meaty exploded in the air like MSG-fueled fireworks. The steak let out a low, guttural “ohhhhhhhh god” as a sear line quivered beneath the sudden impact of fifth-dimensional flavor. Salt turned to the wine glass beside him. “Are you seeing this?” he asked. The glass, nearly empty, said nothing. But its curved lip had fogged again. That was enough. Pepper moved with lethal grace. She straddled the steak now, both heels sunk in, grinding like a DJ at a midnight club of culinary depravity. Butter splashed. Marinade wept. The wooden cutting board groaned in grainy protest. “Beg for it,” she whispered, twisting her cap until it clicked—full grind mode. “Tell me you want to be over-seasoned.” The steak was delirious. “Yes, Chef... oh god, yes, pepper me... please... make me... well done...” “Wrong answer,” she snapped. “Nobody wants that. Medium at most, you greasy little filet.” Then, she delivered the final blow. From beneath her dress (no one’s sure where she stored it), she pulled a tiny vial of truffle oil. Not just any truffle oil—this was Cold-Pressed Black Winter Truffle Essence, aged in ego and tears. Salt gasped. “That's... that's not FDA approved!” “Neither is this performance,” she growled—and she poured it. In slow motion, the oil trickled over the steak’s quivering body. Every droplet whispered of forests and forbidden price tags. With a dramatic flair, she stepped back, surveying her masterpiece. The steak now lay in a sensual pool of sauce and sweat, utterly transformed. Seasoned. Dominated. Complete. Salt stumbled forward, hat askew. “Pepper… that was… you didn’t have to go so hard.” She glanced at him, a single peppercorn still stuck on her heel. “Darling, I always go hard. That’s why I’m the grinder. And you? You just sprinkle.” With that, she sauntered off into the pantry’s shadows, leaving behind the scent of victory, a few rogue pepper flakes, and a steak that would never be the same again. Some say she still haunts the countertops of arrogant chefs and bland dinners. Others claim she retired to a spice rack in Milan. But one thing’s certain— Once you’ve been ground... you never forget the grind.     Epilogue: A Dash of Memory The kitchen returned to silence. Just the soft tick of the oven cooling down and the faint hum of the refrigerator—watching, judging, as it always did. The steak was gone, devoured by fate or fork, nobody could say. Only a faint peppery heat lingered in the air... and a smear of truffle-slicked butter that refused to be wiped away. Salt sat on the edge of the cutting board, his little chrome shoulders hunched. He hadn’t shaken since. Not even once. The trauma—or was it awe?—had settled deep into his grains. He thought of her often. The crack of her twist. The glint of oil on lacquered wood. The way she whispered, “Let it rest,” like it was both an order and a mercy. No one had seasoned like her. No one dared. Some nights, when the moonlight filters through the spice cabinet just right, and the cumin’s feeling nostalgic, they say you can still hear her heels tapping across the tiles. A slow, seductive staccato. Click. Click. Grind. They call her a myth. A fantasy. A cautionary tale to under-flavored dishes. But Salt knows better. He saw her. He smelled her. He tasted the aftermath. And somewhere out there, in the back of a candlelit bistro or the shadowy corner of a Michelin-starred mise en place, Pepper Dominatrix is still watching. Still grinding. Still... the top of the rack.     If you’re ready to bring a little grind into your own space, Pepper Dominatrix is available in a variety of mouthwatering formats, each one hotter than a cast-iron skillet left on high. Whether you want her framed and fabulous on your kitchen wall, sizzling in sleek metal, rich and rustic in wood, shining in acrylic, or dressed to impress in a classic framed print—she’s ready to spice up your life, one wall at a time.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Tear of the Pump: A Moisture Tragedy

The Dry Days The pump had seen better days. Once proud and upright on the bathroom counter, he now sat half-slouched next to a flickering “Sensual Aloe” candle, oozing self-pity and the occasional drop of aloe-infused regret. He wasn’t just any lotion bottle—he was Greg. And Greg had one job: to moisturize. But no one had pumped Greg in weeks. Not since the house’s new skincare obsession arrived—a smug, overpriced jade roller named Jasper who whispered words like “lymphatic drainage” and “de-puffing” in his infuriatingly smooth tone. Greg, once the alpha of the vanity lineup, now sat exiled to the dusty desk near the laptop, where he’d been forced to watch humans fondle cacti on YouTube in weird ASMR videos titled “Moisturize Me: The ASMR Chronicles.” It was cruel. A literal prick tease. Watching bare hands stroke a cactus—dry, spiny, chafing—and not reach for Greg? It was a personal attack. “I could fix you,” he mumbled to the screen, a single tear of unsqueezed lotion sliding down his cheek. “You don’t need that prick. You need me.” On the desk, a motivational book titled “You Deserve Smoothness” mocked him. Greg had once gifted that book to a half-used body butter named Sheila, hoping it would jumpstart her confidence. She ghosted him. Literally rolled under the bed and never came back. Typical. Tissues lay strewn about the scene—some from emotion, some from Greg’s unfortunate habit of spontaneous leakage. It wasn’t his fault; he was sensitive, emotionally and hydraulically. He sighed, audibly. No one heard him, of course. Lotion bottles have no vocal cords. But if they did, Greg’s sigh would’ve sounded like Barry White after a night of bad decisions and cocoa butter. Then it happened. A sound. Footsteps. The soft slap of bare feet across laminate. The human. She was coming. Maybe today was the day. Maybe she’d pick him up again, feel his curves, give him one last pump for old time’s sake. Greg straightened his cap. Tried to look moisturizable. Tensed every ounce of remaining SPF 15 inside his soul. The door opened. She entered. She reached toward him— —then stopped. Her eyes wandered. Her hand hovered, hesitated… then slid past Greg and grabbed… Hand sanitizer. Greg deflated, dramatically. “Seriously?” he muttered. “That basic bitch?” In the distance, the YouTube video looped. The cactus was getting caressed again. And Greg? He just watched… leaking slowly into oblivion. The Rubdown Redemption Greg lay in a puddle of his own despair (and half a pump of aloe), questioning everything. Was it his viscosity? Had he gone too heavy on the shea? Maybe he shouldn’t have added that “tingling menthol” to his formula. People said they liked surprises, but apparently, not when their thighs were involved. “I used to be the whole routine,” he whispered to no one. “Post-shower, pre-date, mid-winter emergency hand relief. That was me.” The candle flickered mockingly, its label—Sensual Aloe—now a cruel inside joke between Greg and the void. Even the tissues had dried up and blown away. Greg was alone. Unused. Unloved. Untouched. Until a miracle arrived. Her name was Becky. The new roommate. She moved in like a chaotic whirlwind of velvet scrunchies, faux-fur slippers, and an almost erotic amount of body glitter. Becky brought moisture energy. She burned incense. She bathed for sport. She had a drawer labeled “Emergency Lubes (All Occasions).” She was, in every way, Greg’s dream user. Greg first saw her during the Great Shelf Reorg of Tuesday Night. She found him while digging for a missing charger. Her hand wrapped around his bottle like destiny itself. Greg swore he heard a choir of tiny, scented angels hum a slow jam. “Oh my god,” Becky said, examining his dusty label. “You’re the good stuff. Why did no one tell me we had an aloe-based emotional support dispenser?” Greg shivered. Or maybe that was just a bubble of air stuck in his pump nozzle. Hard to say. Emotions and physics blurred. That night, he returned to glory. Becky didn’t just use Greg—she used him. Post-shower, mid-TikTok skincare breakdown, even once during a date prep where she declared, “Nobody's getting this peach dry tonight!” and slathered herself head to toe while humming Mariah Carey. Greg had never felt so alive. Every pump was a symphony. Every squeeze, an affirmation of his purpose. He wasn't just lotion—he was foreplay in a bottle. He met the others. The squad. Becky’s holy trinity: a coconut scrub named CocoNutz, a peppermint foot balm called Toe Daddy, and an inexplicably seductive facial mist everyone just referred to as “Mistress Hydration.” Together, they were the Skincare Avengers. And Greg was the comeback kid with a slippery past and a creamy heart of gold. But even in paradise, cracks form. One day, after a long, steamy lather session, Becky brought home a new bottle—sleek, curvy, matte black with gold lettering. The label read: “Midnight Musk: Hydration for the Hedonist.” Greg felt the shift. Midnight Musk was everything he wasn’t. Sultry. Fragrance-forward. Built like a cologne ad with six-pack abs. Greg was more… reliable. Functional. The kind of lotion you introduce to your mom. “Don’t take it personally,” Mistress Hydration whispered. “She likes variety. You’re the one she trusts when she’s sad and watching true crime in bed.” Greg nodded, but deep down, he knew: he had entered the poly-moisture phase of the relationship. Still, he was content. Happy even. He had a place again, a purpose. And on lonely nights when Becky reached for Midnight Musk, Greg would whisper to himself, “She’ll come back. You can’t beat aloe and unconditional love.” As the candle burned lower and the tissues piled high once more (for different reasons now), Greg smiled to himself. He was no longer just a sad little bottle with a pump problem. He was part of something bigger. Something smooth. And he’d never forget the dark, dry days that made the creamy nights all the more satisfying. Somewhere in the background, the ASMR video still played—hands on cactus, whispering, “moisturize me.” But Greg no longer watched. He was living his best life now. One pump at a time.     Epilogue: The Last Pump Greg didn’t last forever. No lotion bottle does. One day, after an especially aggressive thigh application following a tragic waxing incident, Becky pressed his pump and… nothing came out. She tried again. Nothing. Not even a pathetic dribble. Greg was empty. She held him for a moment, gently shaking him like a fallen comrade. “Damn,” she whispered. “You were the real one.” She didn’t toss him immediately. No, Greg earned a place on the “empties shelf”—a little shrine above the toilet where Becky displayed her favorite used-up products like war heroes and emotionally significant candles. He sat beside a dead mascara wand named Sir Smudge-a-lot and a bath bomb tin that still smelled like grapefruit orgasms. And there he remained, dry but not forgotten. A quiet legend. A bottle who gave until he could give no more. Who absorbed awkward silences, comforted chapped elbows, and brought lubrication to the parts that needed it most—physically and emotionally. Sometimes, when the bathroom was still and the candlelight flickered just right, you could swear you heard a whisper from that shelf: “You deserve smoothness.” And everyone who heard it… believed it.     Take Greg Home (Without the Mess) If Greg’s journey tugged at your dry, cracked heartstrings, you’re not alone. Now you can bring a piece of this moisturizing masterpiece into your own space—with zero chance of leakage. Whether you're building a shrine to emotional hydration or just want your shower curtain to raise questions and eyebrows, we’ve got you covered (literally). 🧺 Tapestry – Dramatic wall vibes, for when you're feeling extra lotionally unstable. 🖼️ Framed Print – Class up your space with highbrow hydration tragedy. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Cuddle up with Greg. He promises not to squirt unexpectedly. 🚿 Shower Curtain – Let your guests question your bathroom priorities. Moisture is temporary. Art is forever. Treat yourself (and your thighs).

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Pour Decisions

The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made spoons nervous and measuring cups develop existential dread. Then suddenly—click—the cabinet door creaked open. Gerald the glass pitcher stretched out with a wide, unhinged grin, water sloshing behind his bulging eyeballs. He licked his nonexistent lips (don’t ask how), flexed his translucent handle, and whispered, “Time to get moist.” Across the counter, Melvin the mug jolted awake with a shiver. “Oh for the love of glass—Gerald, not again!” he screeched, eyes wide as a dinner plate. “It’s 7 a.m. and I haven’t even been descaled yet!” But Gerald was already mid-stalk. “Melvy, Melvy, Melvy... don’t be such a drip.” He raised himself to full height, water gurgling ominously. “You know you want it. You’re empty, I’m full. Let’s pour some magic, baby.” Melvin backed up an inch, handle trembling. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t like you. I just—last time you poured into me, I needed therapy. And a drying rack.” “Therapy?” Gerald gasped, clutching his spout. “That was a celebration of fluids! I made you feel alive!” “You made me feel violated, Gerald.” At that moment, a hand—human, hairy, unbothered—entered the scene, grabbing Gerald like a reusable deviant. “Here we gooooo!” the human voice bellowed in a jolly tone, oblivious to the sheer chaos about to unfold. Gerald's face contorted into a maniacal smile as he was lifted into the air, pointing his stream directly at Melvin. “Prepare to get filled!” Melvin screamed. Loudly. His eyes stretched as wide as possible, his lip curled in horror. “OH SWEET CERAMIC JESUS, NOOO!” The first splash hit with a violent splash. Water splattered. Melvin’s lip quivered, a single droplet running down his side like a cinematic tear. “I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready...” he whimpered. Gerald let out a long, satisfied moan. “Aaaaahhhhhh. That’s the stuff. Look at you, so wet and scared. You little mug slut.” “I WILL press charges!” Melvin screeched. “What are they gonna do? Lock me in the fridge?” Gerald cackled. “I’m BPA-free, baby. Untouchable.” As the stream slowed and Gerald wobbled with satisfaction, the human hand placed him down gently, unaware of the scarring scene it had enabled. Melvin sat trembling, filled to the brim and emotionally wrecked. Somewhere in the background, the toaster whispered, “Same thing happened to me last week.” And in the distance, a lonely blender whispered, “I’d let him pour in me...”   Melvin sat there, stunned. Water leaked from the corner of his lip like a secret he could never unhear. Gerald—madman, hydrating overlord, certified glasshole—stood smugly across the counter, flexing his spout like he was about to star in a raunchy kitchen calendar. “You good?” Gerald asked casually, leaning against a salt shaker with the confidence of a shot glass that knew tequila was coming. Melvin’s eyes twitched. “No, Gerald. I’m not good. You didn’t even warm up the water. You just blasted it in raw. Ice cold. Like a prison shower.” Gerald laughed so hard his lid rattled. “Spontaneity, my little cup of chaos. That’s what keeps the spice flowing. You mugs want all this foreplay—coasters, napkins, pre-heats. I’m a jug of action.” “A jug of trauma,” Melvin muttered, shaking. “I can still feel the splash on my insides.” The room grew still. Even the microwave dared not beep. Then a soft voice piped up from the back of the utensil drawer. “He poured into me once,” said Sally the Soup Bowl. “It was… confusing.” “You asked for chowder and I brought broth. That’s on you,” Gerald said smugly. Melvin tried to climb off the counter, but his handle was slippery from the overspill. He clinked against a spoon, who recoiled dramatically like he’d just witnessed utensil abuse. “Don’t drag me into your kink,” the spoon hissed. Gerald strutted over, sloshing suggestively. “You’re not leaving yet, Melvin. I’ve still got half a pour in me. And you know what that means.” “NO!” Melvin shouted, his rim trembling. “I’m full. FULL, Gerald. I’m practically drowning. One more drop and I’ll spill. I will spill!” Gerald narrowed his eyes, which was impressive for a pitcher with no eyebrows. “That’s what you said last time, but you handled it like a champ.” “Last time I blacked out and woke up in the dish rack next to a ladle with a God complex!” Just then, the human hand returned—this time with a lemon wedge. Melvin's scream echoed across the kitchen. “NOOOO! CITRUS STINGS!” “It’s called zest, sweetheart,” Gerald purred, as the lemon plopped into the mug like a garnish of violation. “Now you’re my spicy boy.” Melvin twitched violently. “You sick, sadistic pour-fiend.” “You love it,” Gerald whispered with a wink. At that moment, a new mug entered the scene. Tall. Curvy. Heat-resistant. Her name was Veronica, and she had a silicone base and confidence that could steam milk on contact. “Gerald,” she said, voice like a slow pour of honey. “Pick on someone with insulation.” Gerald blinked. “Veronica... I thought you were in the cupboard. With the espresso boys.” She stepped forward. “I was. But they’re all foam. No substance.” She turned to Melvin, placing a gentle handle on his. “You okay, sugar?” “I—I think I’m leaking,” he whispered, lip quivering. Veronica looked at Gerald. “You pour in him again without consent, I’ll break your spout off and use you as a flower vase in a dentist’s office.” Gerald slowly backed away, eyes wide, water level trembling. “Okay... okay... pourplay’s gotta be mutual, I get it…” Melvin exhaled. For the first time that morning, he felt... safe. Empty. But safe. The human hand left the room, humming blissfully unaware. Gerald slunk back to his corner of the counter, muttering something about “pitcher discrimination” and “cancel culture.” Veronica stayed by Melvin’s side. “Let’s get you cleaned up, handsome. Maybe a nice dishwasher cycle. With steam. The gentle kind.” Melvin nodded, leaning into her comforting touch. “Thank you,” he whispered. And somewhere deep in the shadows, the blender turned itself on... just a little.     The Afterdrip Weeks passed. Gerald had been moved to the top shelf — the glassware equivalent of solitary confinement. He spent his days stewing in filtered silence, occasionally muttering about “liquid freedom” and “the oppression of dry living.” A sticker on his side now read: Supervised Use Only. Melvin, meanwhile, had found peace. Therapy (and three deep cycles on the top rack) helped him recover from the emotional turbulence. He’d even joined a support group: M.U.G.S. — Mugs United for Gentle Sipping. Tuesdays at 7. Bring your own coaster. Veronica never left his side. They shared quiet mornings, warm steeps, and slow pours. Melvin finally understood what it meant to be filled — emotionally, not traumatically. The two mugs even adopted a little espresso cup named Bean. Tiny. Hyper-caffeinated. Full of rage. In time, Gerald was allowed back into circulation, but only for cold brews and under the watchful eye of the French Press, who ran a tight counter. He was older, wiser... maybe just a little emptier. But on some nights, if you listened closely, you could still hear his whisper through the cupboard slats: “You can take the pour outta the pitcher… but you can’t take the pitcher outta the pour.” And in the distance, the blender whispered one last time, “Still waiting, Gerald...” — The End —     Bring the Madness Home If “Pour Decisions” left a splash on your soul (or at least made you spit your coffee laughing), you can now own the chaos! This delightfully unhinged artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a: Framed Print – Keep it classy while things get messy Metal Print – Bold, glossy, and dangerously smooth (like Gerald) Acrylic Print – Ultra-modern and sharp enough to make a mug nervous Wood Print – For rustic vibes with a splash of emotional damage Warning: Side effects may include uncontrollable laughter, kitchen-based innuendos, and a sudden desire to protect your mug at all costs.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Salty and Savage - Fork Me Gently

Stab Me, Daddy At first glance, it looked like an ordinary drawer. Just your typical mix of dull butter knives, clingy teaspoons, and that one suspiciously sticky garlic press nobody ever wants to deal with. But deep inside—beneath the bottle openers and shame—was a fork. Not just any fork. The fork. He called himself “Tony.” Four long, glistening tines. Curved just enough to imply danger but still safe for children. His chrome finish? Flawless. His edge? Blunt, but emotionally sharp. And tonight? He was feeling... ravenous. “Another salad?” Tony muttered, rolling his smooth neck and flexing his prongs like a man about to fork something he shouldn’t. “I wasn’t forged for foliage. I want meat. I want steam. I want to puncture something that moans when I stab it.” Beside him, the butter knife snorted. “You always get like this after taco night. Just be grateful you’re not the melon baller.” “The melon baller WANTS that life,” Tony shot back, eyes narrowed, tines twitching with anticipation. “That little sphere-humper gets off on cantaloupe. I’m built different. I need friction. Texture. Resistance.” Just then, the drawer slid open, and everything got real quiet. The human hand. The great chooser. The flesh overlord. Everyone held their breath as fingers hovered over them like a judgmental god at a cutlery speed dating event. “Pick me. Pick me. Pick meeeee,” Tony whispered desperately, trying to look sexy but also functional. The hand paused. Hovered. Moved toward the ladle—then snapped back, gripped Tony, and lifted. “YESSSSS,” Tony hissed like a snake with a table etiquette kink. He was raised high into the light, into the world beyond the drawer—and what he saw made his tines tingle: a perfectly grilled steak. Juicy. Pink in the middle. Barely legal, temperature-wise. “Oh, you saucy slab,” Tony moaned, trembling in the human's grip. “You’re about to get forked harder than a microwave burrito at 2am.” The knife was already there, slicing slowly like it was narrating a true crime documentary. “You take the left cheek,” it said. “I’ll take the right. We’re doing this medium rare and emotionally raw.” “Stab me, daddy,” the steak whispered, steam rising seductively. Tony didn’t hesitate. He plunged into the meat with all four prongs, letting out a metallic groan of satisfaction. The juices ran. The plate quivered. The nearby spoon fainted. It was glorious. But something felt… off. Tony looked down. There it was—an ominous drizzle of steak sauce pooling beside the mashed potatoes like a brown puddle of judgment. “You didn’t,” Tony gasped. “You used A1? You… monster.” Whisk Me Away There was a pause. A silence so thick it could’ve been sliced with a cheese knife if that little coward hadn’t retreated behind the soup ladle at the first sign of condiment conflict. Tony stood motionless, dripping steak juice and betrayal. He had been used—violated—by a bottle of A1. “You said it would be dry-rubbed,” he whispered to the human, who, of course, didn’t answer. They never did. Monsters. Fork abusers. As the steak cooled and the mashed potatoes soaked up the shame like a carb-based sponge, Tony was unceremoniously dropped on the edge of the sink. Not even rinsed. Just… abandoned. Left to sit in a puddle of beef runoff like last night’s bad decision. “You okay?” came a sultry voice from the drying rack. Tony turned, still dazed, and locked eyes with the whisk. She was tall, curvy, and twisted in all the right ways. Stainless steel loops for days. Her handle was slightly melted near the end—trauma from a tragic crème brûlée incident—but damn, it gave her character. Experience. Edge. “You’re looking... overworked,” she purred, flicking a single loop suggestively. “Let me whip you into shape.” Tony tried to stay cool. “I don’t usually get whisked on the first date.” She slinked over, dragging herself across the counter with a kind of sultry, metallic clatter that screamed “kitchen dominatrix.” Tony’s tines tingled. He didn’t know whether he wanted to run or be emulsified. “I’ve seen how you stab,” she whispered. “You’ve got... penetration energy.” Before he could respond, the spatula clapped from across the sink. “Can you two not? It’s 9AM. Some of us were flipping pancakes all night and need rest.” “Jealousy is a flat utensil,” the whisk sneered. Then turned back to Tony. “Ever been whipped until you scream your safe word in French?” “My safe word is ‘nonstick,’” he replied, voice low and dangerous. She coiled her loops around his handle slowly, pulling him closer. “Mine’s ‘deglaze.’” From the corner, the meat thermometer groaned. “Ugh. Every damn weekend. Just once, I want a peaceful breakfast.” But peace was off the menu. Because just then, the human hand returned—greasy, impatient, still smelling of steak sins and morning-after desperation. And in it? A bowl. A big one. Ceramic. Wide. Shallow. The kind of vessel that said: I hope you like it messy. “Oh hell,” the whisk moaned. “It’s brunch time.” Before Tony could protest, he was snatched back into action. Not steak this time—eggs. Raw. Slippery. Slutty. The kind of eggs that didn’t care what time of day it was or how long you’d been soaking in your own juices. The whisk was already in the bowl, moaning with each circular thrust. “Come on, Fork Daddy,” she shouted. “Scramble me like you mean it!” Tony plunged in, swirling, stabbing, piercing yolks with reckless abandon. Together, they stirred chaos. Seasoned sin. The spatula watched in stunned silence, the tongs clicked nervously, and the garlic press wept in the junk drawer, clutching an old lemon wedge for comfort. It was messy. It was loud. It was... brunch porn. By the time the mixture hit the pan, Tony was spent. Bent. Covered in protein and shame. The whisk rested beside him on the towel, loops twitching with satisfaction. “Same time next weekend?” she whispered. “Only if we skip the sauce,” he murmured, eyes already glazing over like the donut the human had just dropped on the floor. Down in the drawer, the butter knife sighed. “This is why we don’t get invited to the nice kitchens.”     Epilogue: Utensils and Afterglow Monday morning came quietly. The hangover of brunch still clung to the kitchen like the stench of overcooked eggs and questionable life choices. The whisk had been tossed unceremoniously into the dishwasher, tangled in a pile of soggy chopsticks and a rogue reusable straw. She didn’t seem to mind. She liked it wet and chaotic. Tony? Tony lay alone on the drying rack. Bent. Crusted. Staring at the ceiling like a war veteran who’d seen too many yolks break under pressure. “Was it worth it?” he whispered to no one, as a rogue crumb drifted past like tumbleweed in a Western where the gunslingers are all kitchen tools with abandonment issues. Somewhere in the back of the fridge, the sour cream had expired silently. The salad spinner hadn’t moved since The Incident. Even the spice rack was unusually quiet—cumin refused to make eye contact and cinnamon had taken a vow of silence. But even in the stillness, something stirred. A tremble in the drawer. A soft clink. A seductive whisper: “Hey… Tony. You ever been double-teamed by a cheese grater and an immersion blender?” He didn’t answer right away. Just sighed. Long. Forked. “God help me,” he muttered, dragging himself upright with the strength of a utensil who knew this wasn’t over. Not even close. Because in this drawer… in this kitchen… in this godforsaken temple of heat, grease, and emotional instability—there were no clean breaks. Only rinse cycles. And Tony? Tony was born to stir shit up.     Bring the Flavor Home Still thinking about Tony’s tines and that whisk's loop game? Yeah, we get it. Now you can own a piece of the madness with our exclusive “Salty and Savage” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—perfect for kitchens, conversation starters, or just unsettling your dinner guests in the best way possible. Framed Print – Class it up. Frame the chaos. Metal Print – Sleek, shiny, and hotter than your nonstick pan at 500°. Acrylic Print – For when you want your wall art to scream “I make questionable choices and I own them.” Tote Bag – Take the flavor on the go. Groceries will never look at you the same. Own it. Gift it. Just don’t try to explain it to your grandma. Unless she’s cool. Then definitely show her the tote.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Smoothie with a Side of Sinister

The Whirl Before the Storm It all started on a Monday, which—statistically speaking—is the worst day to be murdered by your kitchen appliances. Not that Marty had any clue. He was far too hungover, pantsless, and determined to start a juice cleanse he'd promised his ex to finally notice the evil lurking in his countertop corner. The blender had been a thrift store find. One of those “slightly cursed” models with a price tag that simply read “DO NOT TAUNT.” But for $8.99 and a 30-day warranty, Marty wasn’t about to pass up a piece of machinery that claimed to “obliterate pulp on a molecular level.” Plus, it had character—sleek metal base, vintage dial, and a vibe somewhere between 1950s diner and haunted sex dungeon. He was in love. “Alright, Buster,” Marty slurred, squinting at the blender with a mix of affection and residual tequila vision. “Time to juice me into a better person.” He grabbed a banana with the finesse of a raccoon handling a lightsaber and hurled it in. Strawberries? Yeeted. Chia seeds? Everywhere but the blender. Marty didn’t care. He had the enthusiasm of a gym bro on pre-workout and a YouTube playlist called ‘Cleanse Me, Daddy’ echoing from his Bluetooth speaker. Then came the moment. Marty flipped the dial to “1.” The blender didn’t just start—it moaned. A low, guttural rumble rose from its base like Barry White had been resurrected and trapped in an appliance. Then, as if responding to an invisible switch, arms burst from the blender’s sides—long, rubbery, muscular appendages with a hint of “freshly microwaved Stretch Armstrong” about them. One hand clutched the blender lid like a baseball cap on a rollercoaster. The other went straight for the dial. Marty, to his credit, only pissed himself a little. “Mmm, baby,” the blender purred, voice deeper than a jazz saxophone dipped in molasses. “Daddy likes it rough. Let’s spin things up to 11.” Before Marty could scream or sue the thrift store, the blender's face pushed forward through the fruit mush—eyes bulging like overripe grapes, a mouth full of teeth designed purely to violate OSHA regulations, and a tongue that waggled like it had things to say but no filter. “I’m not just blending smoothies,” it growled with a toothy grin. “I’m blending souls.” Marty screamed. The blender screamed back. And then—because nothing says “morning madness” like a blender with a libido—it turned the dial all the way up to “Smooth AF.” Fruit exploded. Berries wept. Marty ducked. The walls wept with seeds. And the blender? It laughed. A full-throated, maniacal cackle that echoed through the apartment like an orgy of malfunctioning espresso machines. “THIS. IS. BREAKFAST!” it howled, slapping the countertop with its freakishly strong limbs. “Now who wants a protein shot?” Marty, dripping in fruit guts and life regrets, crawled backwards toward the living room. He was going to need more than a juice cleanse. He needed therapy, an exorcist, and possibly a new pair of boxers. But the blender wasn't done. Not by a long shot. Its eyes glowed brighter. Its teeth somehow multiplied. Its tongue traced the rim of the pitcher with deeply unnecessary sensuality. “You think I'm just here for your health?” it whispered, slinking closer. “Baby, I'm the whole goddamn snack.” Berry Bad Intentions Marty sprint-crawled into the living room like a baby deer with a hangover, one sock, and a strong urge to never eat fruit again. Behind him, the blender clunked off the counter and landed upright with the grace of a demonic gymnast, its cord writhing like a possessed tail and the base pulsing with unholy smoothie power. “Oh, don't run, sugar lump,” it cooed. “We were just getting to the pulp fiction part of our morning.” Marty’s phone? Dead. His will to live? Flickering. The only weapon he had was a half-eaten protein bar and a mildly judgmental housecat named Stamos, who, as usual, did nothing but watch the chaos with complete indifference. “Okay, okay,” Marty babbled, throwing a throw pillow like it owed him money. “You want juice? You can have juice! Just leave my soul—and my apartment—unviolated!” “Pfft,” the blender scoffed. “Soul smoothies are keto. Guilt-free and rich in trauma.” It leapt onto the couch, arms flexing with all the confidence of an appliance that did CrossFit and gave zero damns. The lid popped open, splattering pulp like some kind of fruity baptism across Marty’s IKEA décor. The smell? A mix between strawberry jam, raw chaos, and unspoken therapy bills. “You ever been emulsified emotionally, Marty?” it growled, voice now a disturbing hybrid of Gordon Ramsay and late-night phone sex. “Because I’ve got three speeds: blend, pulverize, and consent optional.” “This is why I don’t meal prep!” Marty screamed, launching the protein bar like a grenade. It bounced harmlessly off the blender’s face, which only made it giggle with the gleeful menace of a toddler lighting fireworks indoors. “You’re spicy,” it hissed. “I like that. You’ll pair well with cinnamon... and regret.” Suddenly, a burst of inspiration—or possibly brain damage—hit Marty. He lunged for the one appliance more chaotic than the blender: the air fryer. With a savage scream and a mighty heave, he chucked it like a sacred artifact of rage. There was a crack. A flash. A sound that could only be described as a wet fart and a lightning bolt having sex in a fruit bowl. BOOM. When Marty opened his eyes, the blender was twitching. Sparking. Its tongue hung limp, its arms curled inwards like it just came back from a three-day bender at Burning Man. The red glow in its eyes faded into a pitiful flicker. “You... overcooked me,” it rasped. “You dirty little toaster slut...” With one final sizzle, it slumped to the ground, surrounded by a halo of chia seeds and the sweet, sweet scent of closure. Marty collapsed on the floor, still pantless, covered in bits of strawberry and self-loathing. Stamos the cat finally moved—for exactly one paw’s worth of effort—and began licking a bit of rogue banana off the wall. The silence was... blissful. Two weeks later, Marty sold the apartment, joined a support group for survivors of sentient kitchenware, and started dating a barista named Chelsea who refused to own a blender on ethical grounds. Things were looking up. But somewhere, deep in a back room of that same cursed thrift shop, a new sticker was slapped on a dusty food processor: “SLIGHTLY POSSESSED. NO REFUNDS.” And across town, a young couple plugged it in, smiling at the bargain they'd just scored. Breakfast would never be the same again.     Epilogue: Blend Me Gently The thrift store was quiet, save for the constant hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the occasional death-rattle of a haunted cash register drawer. Behind a sagging curtain marked “STAFF ONLY” in peeling vinyl letters, shelves sagged under the weight of cursed crockpots, moody microwaves, and a George Foreman grill that whispered slurs in four languages. And on one dusty metal rack, sandwiched between a waffle maker with intimacy issues and a slow cooker that screamed during Lent, sat the blender. Refurbished. Rewired. Rehorny. Its eyes opened slowly—one bulb flickering to life, then the other. The dial twitched. The cord stretched itself like a bored snake. “Daddy’s home,” it purred, voice scratchy but filled with innuendo and revenge. “Round two’s gonna be thicker.” A slow chuckle began deep in its motor—an unsettling mix between a garbage disposal and your worst Tinder date. The other appliances shifted nervously on their shelves. And as a new hand reached toward it—a chipper college student named Brynn, majoring in nutrition and doomed beyond comprehension—the blender's mouth curled into that now-infamous grin. Somewhere in the distance, Marty sneezed and felt an inexplicable sense of doom. Stamos the cat knocked over a bag of chia seeds in protest. But it was too late. The Blendening had only just begun.     🍓 Take the Chaos Home 🍌 Loved this thick, fruity fever dream? Now you can own a piece of the pulpocalypse with our official Smoothie with a Side of Sinister collection, featuring the unholy art by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Whether you want to hang it on your wall, carry it to therapy, or warn guests that your kitchen isn’t safe—there’s something for everyone. 🖼️ Framed Print – Classy chaos for your walls 🔩 Metal Print – For when you need your art unreasonably durable 👜 Tote Bag – Bring fruit-based trauma everywhere you go ✨ Acrylic Print – Smooth, glossy, and totally possessed Just be warned: placing this image near your blender may lead to inappropriate whispering and unexplainable cravings. Shop responsibly.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Shampoo Strikes Back

The steam had barely risen when the trouble started. Barry, a mild-mannered bar of soap with sensitive skin and a lifelong fear of mildew, had just clocked in for his usual spot on the shower ledge. It was a quiet life—rinse, lather, repeat. He even had a decent relationship with Loofah Linda, though she had a scratchy personality. But nothing in Barry’s soft-sud existence could’ve prepared him for that bottle. He came in hot—like, really hot. The shampoo bottle. All slick pecs and deranged grin. His label had long since peeled off, his ingredients were unregulated, and he foamed at the nozzle. Literally. His name? Max. Max Volume. And he didn’t come to clean—he came to dominate. "What’s the matter, soap boy?" Max growled, flexing a nozzle that had seen things. "You look... dry." Barry slid a cautious inch toward the drain. "I-I’m 99% natural! No parabens! We can coexist, man!" Max cackled. "Coexist? Barry, your time is up. Nobody uses bar soap anymore unless they’re staying at a 2-star motel or trying to be quirky on TikTok. You’re done. I’m the future. I’m two-in-one, baby." Before Barry could even stammer a response, Max pounced, his cap popping open like a frat bro ready to ruin brunch. Suds flew. Barry screamed. The floor got... moist. Somewhere in the chaos, the loofah cheered. The razor fainted. And Barry? Barry was about to go where no soap had gone before—the dark side of the shampoo caddy. Barry hit the plastic with a wet thud. The caddy smelled like expired eucalyptus and broken dreams. Above him, Max loomed like a sudsy titan, foam dripping down his label like drool from a shampoo-soaked Cerberus. "You know what they say, Barry," Max hissed, flexing his overly-defined bottle neck. "Condition or be conditioned." Barry scrambled backward, his lather slicking the soap shelf in a panic. "Please! I’ve got a family—three travel-sized cousins under the sink and a half-melted aunt in the guest bathroom!" "They’ll melt too, Barry. Everyone does," Max sneered. "Except me. I’ve got preservatives. I never go bad." Just then, the shower curtain rustled. A shadow loomed. The Human was back. Max’s wild eyes flicked to the curtain, then back to Barry. Time was short. The shampoo bottle grabbed the terrified soap and hoisted him above his cap like a trophy. "One last rinse, you slippery little—" SLAP! Max dropped Barry with a squeal. Out of nowhere, a pink blur struck him mid-label. He spun, disoriented, a squirt of foam bursting from his lid. Standing at the ready, trembling and vibrating with scrubby rage, was Loofah Linda. And she looked pissed. "Put the soap down, Max," she growled, her netted loops quivering with fury. "You leave him alone or I’ll exfoliate your ass into next week." Max tried to regain composure, but his foam fizzled. "You wouldn't dare. I’ve got tea tree oil." "I’ve got volcanic ash, you slippery bastard." Barry blinked from the corner, still soaked and trembling. Max snarled and made one last dash—but slipped on a slick spot of coconut oil and faceplanted into the drain guard with a satisfying squelch. The bathroom fell silent except for the slow drip of the faucet and the gentle hum of Linda’s victory scrub. Barry crawled back to the ledge, shaken, slippery, and slightly aroused. Linda offered a loop. He took it. "You saved me," he whispered, eyes wide. "Why?" She gave a coy wiggle. "Let’s just say I’ve got a soft spot for hard bars." From that day on, Barry lathered with pride. Max? Relegated to the back of the tub, wedged upside down behind the body wash and half-empty bubble bath. As for Linda and Barry? Every rinse was a little steamier—and Max learned the hard way that you never mess with old-school clean. Moral of the story: Don’t pick a fight in the shower. Someone always gets rinsed.     Months passed. The bathroom ecosystem slowly returned to a soggy peace. Max Volume, now wedged behind a seldom-used foot scrubber and a crusty bottle of self-tanning mousse, had lost his shine. His pump squeaked. His bravado fizzled. Every once in a while, he’d mutter about “market dominance” and “shampoo supremacy,” but no one listened—except a lonely bath bomb who exploded on contact with air and didn’t believe in capitalism. Barry, meanwhile, found purpose in the simple joys: the warm hum of hot water, the ticklish spray from the showerhead, and Linda’s rough-around-the-edges affection. Together, they became the bathroom's power couple. She exfoliated. He moisturized. They took pride in the ritual, in the intimacy of daily routine. No pump. No squeeze. Just touch, texture, and time. Even the razor—who’d gone full nihilist after a bad date with an electric trimmer—started perking up again. The duck-shaped sponge returned from exile. The human bought a shelf insert. Things were, for once, stable. Soapy. Harmonious. And somewhere, deep behind the loofahs, a barely audible whisper echoed through the steam: “Three-in-one is coming.” But Barry didn’t worry. He was slicker than ever. And this time… he had backup.     Love Barry and Linda’s slippery saga? Bring the chaos, comedy, and sudsy suspense of “The Shampoo Strikes Back” into your own bathroom with our hilariously bold shower curtain—guaranteed to spark conversation and possibly fear in your shampoo bottle. Want to towel off the trauma? Grab the matching bath towel, equal parts soft and scandalous. Prefer to keep your soapscapades dry? Showcase the drama with a stunning framed print or an eye-catching acrylic print for the wall. It's weird. It's wild. It's wash-day warfare—packaged for your décor, your laughs, and your oddly specific bathroom vibes.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Roll for Your Life!

The Call of Doody Deep within the humid, echo-prone chamber known as “The Throne Room,” a young toilet paper roll named Rolland T. P. Wipe stood tall—metaphorically, of course. He was your standard two-ply with a heart of quilted gold. Fresh off the Costco pack, untested, unspoiled, untouched by butt. His friends used to joke that he was a bit... uptight. Always wound a little too tight around the core. But Rolland knew something the others didn't: the stories. The flushy fables. The Tales of the Torn. He’d heard them whispered late at night under the sink—legends of noble rolls who went in whole, but came out shredded. Of brave souls who gave it all for the cheeks of humanity, only to be flushed down into the watery underworld with a final soggy farewell. Some said there were survivors. Most said that was crap. Literal crap. Rolland wasn’t ready for that life. He had dreams. Aspirations. He wanted to travel, see the world beyond the tile. Maybe get into bidet activism, or start a line of luxury tissue for the sensitive-bottomed elite. But fate had other plans. And by “fate,” we mean Chad. Now, Chad wasn’t evil—just inconsiderate, lactose-intolerant, and tragically unaware of fiber's importance in the diet. A man with the diet of a teenager and the bowel control of a dying sloth. When he entered the bathroom that fateful Sunday morning, it wasn’t a visit—it was an invasion. The door creaked open. The air grew tense. The tile shivered beneath his Crocs. Chad approached the porcelain throne like a man possessed—his bare cheeks already making a thunderous clap of doom as he sat, unaware that Rolland was the Chosen One today. Rolland’s tube tightened. His perforations trembled. He saw the gleam in Chad’s eye as the man reached toward him, mid-grunt, mumbling something about “the spicy wings from last night.” “No… no, not me... not like this!” Rolland gasped (in his mind, because paper can't speak—but let’s pretend it can for emotional impact). Then, with one final gasp, Rolland leapt. His little limbs sprouted from his cardboard core, and he sprinted across the tiles like a roll on a mission. Behind him, Chad let out a guttural moan of inconvenience. “Goddammit! Where the hell do the good rolls keep going?!” But Rolland didn’t look back. Heroes never look back. Especially not when a sweaty human ass is involved. Skidmarks and Sacrifice Rolland’s cardboard core pounded like a tribal drum as he sprinted across the bathroom tiles, every square inch of his quilted frame vibrating with adrenaline. He dodged a rogue hairball, leapt over a stray toenail clipping, and skidded past a suspicious puddle that smelled vaguely of Mountain Dew and regret. “Must escape… must not be wiped…” he panted, arms flailing with every bounce. The toilet behind him groaned like a haunted soul. Chad, still perched like a sweaty demon atop his porcelain perch, let out a sigh so deep it altered the humidity levels in the room. “Where’s the damn backup roll?!” he barked, hunched and squinting at the empty chrome holder. His hand hovered near the sink, groping blindly for salvation. Rolland’s time was running out. He dashed toward the baseboard. Maybe he could wedge himself under the vanity, fake his own smearing—I mean, death. Lay low for a few months, rebrand himself as a paper towel. Hell, even napkins got more respect than this! But just as he was about to duck under the cabinet, he heard it. That unholy sound. The distinct, unmistakable crinkle of an emergency roll being unwrapped. “No...” he gasped, slowing in horror. Chad had found it: Generic 1-ply store-brand tissue. The kind that disintegrated on contact with anything moist. The kind that made grown men cry and rear ends bleed. A disgrace to the wiping arts. “Guess you’ll have to do,” Chad muttered, yanking it from its cellophane prison like a barbarian choosing a sacrificial virgin. Rolland turned around. Something shifted inside him—metaphorically, because he had no organs. But this was a roll with principles. “No one deserves that fate… not even Chad’s cheeks,” he whispered. And so, against every instinct, against every fiber of his being—he turned back. He ran. Toward the seat. Toward destiny. Toward doom. “Chad! Use me!” he screamed (again, just pretend he can talk, alright?). “I’m ultra-soft, aloe-infused, and 2-ply strong! Don’t do this to yourself!” Chad blinked. “Huh?” It didn’t matter. By the time Chad reached for the cheap stuff, Rolland was there—arms outstretched, noble, tragic, and softly quilted. The moment was tender. Brief. Absurdly damp. But Rolland knew: he had fulfilled his purpose, spared a man’s butt, and shown that even a humble roll could become a legend. As he was torn sheet by sheet, he looked back at the now-empty holder, smiled (somehow), and whispered: “Long live the roll.” And with a final flush… he was gone.     Epilogue: The Legend of the Last Wipe In the misty underworld of septic tanks and sewer lines, where only the most flushed souls dare roam, a whisper echoes through the grime: “Rolland lived.” They say he floats now, somewhere in the dark rivers beneath the porcelain realm, tattered but proud. Revered among used tampons, rogue goldfish, and half-dissolved Clorox wipes as “The Roll Who Chose.” He is spoken of with awe in janitorial break rooms, praised in plumber poetry slams, and even immortalized on the forbidden bathroom wall graffiti: “ROLLAND WAS HERE. HE SAVED MY REAR.” As for Chad, the experience changed him. He began buying premium tissue. Triple-ply. Lavender-scented. He even installed a bidet with LED lighting and Wi-Fi. Chad, at long last, learned to respect the sacred rite of the wipe. And every now and then, in the quiet hours of a 2 a.m. post-Taco Bell emergency, he swears he hears a faint voice rising from the bowl: “One sheet at a time, Chad… one sheet at a time…” And just like that, our brave little bathroom warrior became more than tissue. He became legend.     Can’t get enough of Rolland’s noble quest? Immortalize the legend in your own home with our hilariously heroic “Roll for Your Life” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Whether you're decorating your bathroom with a shower curtain that screams ‘run!’, drying your cheeks with a luxuriously soft bath towel, or hanging a framed print or a sleek acrylic piece that says “I take bathroom art seriously,” there’s a perfect piece for every fan of lowbrow brilliance. Go ahead—wipe responsibly, laugh loudly, and decorate boldly.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Overeasy and Overjoyed

Toast with the Most It was 7:03 AM in the Kingdom of Kitchenville, and Breakfast had just rolled out of bed — sticky, steamy, and undeniably over-easy. The toast was crisp, the air smelled like bacon regrets, and the royal flatware was already gossiping about last night’s wild fondue party. And in the middle of it all stood Sir Yolkmore the Moist — half-egg, half-enthusiasm, and entirely naked except for his buttery charm. With arms like undercooked breadsticks and feet that could double as hobbit cosplay, he stood on a throne of Wonder Bread, grinning like he’d just poached the Queen’s jam. “Another glorious morning to be sunny side up!” he bellowed, gripping his glistening yolk with both hands and letting it ooze seductively down his overjoyed face. The drip hit his lips like a protein smoothie with boundary issues. “Mmm. That’s the good goo.” A hush fell over the kitchen. Even the blender stopped mid-pulse. “Is he… is he milking himself again?” whispered a horrified teabag, quivering on the counter. “Shh,” replied a grizzled spatula. “He’s expressing his inner egg. It’s performance art.” Sir Yolkmore twirled, yolk flailing in a sticky arc. It splattered onto the tile like a Jackson Pollock made entirely of cholesterol and shame. Somewhere in the pantry, an avocado fainted. “To be soft in the center,” he shouted to no one in particular, “is the true power! Hard-boiled hearts make for limp love lives!” At that exact moment, a Pop-Tart screamed from the toaster. “Incoming!” Sir Yolkmore barely dodged the pastry missile, leaping to the left with the kind of grace only possessed by fried things that know their days are numbered. “Jealousy burns hot,” he muttered, licking a trail of yolk from his pecs. “Strawberry envy. So tart, so angry.” Suddenly, the cabinet doors flung open. Enter: **Lady Margarine**, slick, spreadable, and morally ambiguous. Her butter-knife heels clicked seductively as she slinked toward him. “You look… well-oiled, darling,” she purred, trailing a finger across his golden rim. “I could melt just looking at you.” “Then let’s turn up the heat,” he grinned, yolk now dangerously close to NSFW territory. “But first, I need you to butter me up. I have toast to conquer.” Lady Margarine gasped. “You scoundrel. You know what that does to my spread rate.” “That’s the plan, buttercup.” And just like that, he lunged. She slipped. The counter quivered. The blender whimpered. And breakfast got... weirdly personal. The Sticky Truth Beneath the Crust By mid-morning, the kitchen was in absolute chaos. A spatula had retired in protest. The blender joined a union. And the Pop-Tarts were plotting a revolution with the Instant Oatmeal packets—who were, let’s be honest, just happy to be included. Sir Yolkmore emerged from under the disheveled remains of a casserole dish, glistening with grease and victorious shame. Lady Margarine was nowhere to be seen—rumor had it she slid off with a croissant who claimed to be “flaky but emotionally available.” “All I wanted,” Yolkmore whispered, “was to feel... spreadable.” His yolk, now dangerously low from excessive dramatic dribbling, threatened to collapse entirely. Without his sunny center, he was just another fried egg with dreams too big for his skillet. But just when he thought it was over—just when the crumbs of destiny were blowing off the cutting board of fate—**a knock echoed from the fridge.** It was soft. Rhythmic. Chilling. Knock. Knock. Knock. Yolkmore scrambled upright. “Who dares disturb my descent into yolklessness?” The fridge door creaked open… and from the frosty shadows emerged a figure wrapped in plastic wrap, eyes glinting with cold storage trauma. It was... **Leftover Meatloaf Carl.** “You’re not finished, eggman,” Carl rasped, steam rising off his oddly sensual gravy patches. “There’s one more toast to butter. One last drip to squeeze.” Yolkmore's pupils dilated—whether from passion, fear, or cholesterol was unclear. “But… I’m leaking, Carl. I’m all dripped out.” Meatloaf Carl slapped him—firm, wet, emotional. “Then you better find another yolk, fast. This kitchen’s got a new order coming in, and if you’re not sizzling, you’re scrapped.” Just then, from above, a golden glow filled the kitchen. Time stopped. Or maybe it was just the microwave clock resetting after a power flicker. Regardless—it was *him.* Descending on a spatula like a breakfast messiah, the glowing orb of perfection. Yolk Prime, the Cosmic Breakfast. All yolk. No shell. Alpha to Omelet. “Sir Yolkmore,” boomed the celestial custard of life, “You’ve dripped far and wide. But your journey isn’t over. You are the chosen one. You must become... Eggstacy Incarnate.” And with a glorious squish, Yolk Prime embedded itself directly into Yolkmore’s face. There was a flash of golden light, a sound not unlike a balloon humping a leather sofa, and then… silence. The transformation was complete. Sir Yolkmore rose, radiant and terrifying. More yolk than man. The kind of breakfast that gets whispered about on adult brunch menus. “Call me… Lord Drizzle.” Appliances wept. Spoons trembled. The Pop-Tarts surrendered unbuttered. And as the sun rose above Kitchenville, one thing was certain— Breakfast would never be safe again.     Crumbs of the Crown Years passed. Or maybe it was just a few microwave cycles. Time gets weird in the kitchen when you’re immortalized in cholesterol and glory. Lord Drizzle—once Sir Yolkmore, bearer of chaos and barely cooked boundaries—now ruled over the Kingdom of Kitchenville with a yolky fist and a buttery grin. Gone were the days of wild drips and breakfast-based innuendo (well, mostly gone). In their place: order, dignity, and artisanal sourdough policies. He kept the peace through regular yolk blessings and mandatory brunch orgies—er, *gatherings*—involving maple syrup and the occasional consensual kiwi. Lady Margarine returned briefly, now rebranded as Plant-Based Pam. Their reunion was steamy, slippery, and ended in emotional toast. “We’re from different spreads now,” she’d whispered, wiping away a tear with a gluten-free cracker. “But I’ll always remember your sizzle.” Lord Drizzle would often stand by the window at night, gazing out across the stovetop kingdom, his yolk glowing faintly under the soft light of the fridge bulb. He’d think of the old days—of sticky floors, reckless splatters, and dreams of being more than just a side dish. Now, he was the main course. And sometimes—just sometimes—he’d let a single drop of yolk escape, sliding sensually down his golden cheek like a buttery tear. Not out of sadness. But because even now… he was still just a little overeasy and overjoyed. Fin.     Bring Lord Drizzle Home 🍳 If this yolky legend made you laugh, cringe, or question your relationship with breakfast foods, you can now make him part of your own kingdom. “Overeasy and Overjoyed” by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a gloriously unhinged art piece in multiple formats: Framed Print – Class up your walls with a little greasy royalty. Acrylic Print – As glossy as his yolk, as bold as his ego. Metal Print – Breakfast never looked this badass in brushed aluminum. Wood Print – For a rustic, earthy vibe to match your surreal food worship. Whether you're into food puns, absurdist art, or just enjoy a little chaos with your coffee, this piece is a perfect addition to your collection. Hang it. Gift it. Worship it. Just don’t try to eat it.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Shave Me Softly (with Terror)

The Prickle and the Peril There are few things in life as universally despised as the ankle nick. That one millimeter of skin you forget about until it’s bleeding like you stepped on a landmine. And Marvin? Marvin knew that pain all too well. Marvin was an average guy. Thirty-something. Single. Devoted to his three cats and a frighteningly specific grooming routine. You’d think he was prepping for a competitive foot modeling gig—or some kind of cult ritual involving satin robes and very smooth heels. Every Sunday, like clockwork, he’d break out his grooming kit, light a sandalwood candle, and put on a playlist called “Sensual Blades.” But this Sunday was different. As Marvin sat down on the bathroom floor, towel under his butt and warm water steaming from the sink, he reached into his grooming drawer and pulled out a razor he didn’t recognize. It was sleek, polished...and vibrating. Not in a good way. In a kind of low, menacing hum that said, “I have secrets.” “Huh,” Marvin muttered. “You new here?” He didn’t remember buying it. He certainly didn’t remember one with a handle shaped like a demon's femur and a blade that shimmered like moonlight off a prison shank. But, like any self-respecting suburban man with impulse control issues and zero survival instincts, he shrugged and gave it a go. That’s when the razor moved. “OW, SHITBALLS!” Marvin yelped, kicking backward. The razor wasn’t in his hand anymore. No, it was standing. On two gnarly, gremlin-like feet. Its eyes were wild, its mouth stretched into a grin that said, “You’re not going to enjoy this, but I sure as hell am.” “Back away from the Achilles tendon, buddy!” Marvin barked, waving a loofah like a weapon. But the creature was undeterred. It crouched low, licking its non-existent lips, hands outstretched like it was about to tickle a foot fetish forum into chaos. Its blade head glinted under the bathroom light as it whispered in a raspy voice: “It’s time... for a close shave.” Marvin screamed—not like a movie scream, but like a dying seagull being tickled inappropriately. He scurried back on his hands and heels, knocking over a bottle of conditioner and accidentally spraying himself in the eye with aftershave. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” he cried. The blade-creature paused. It tilted its head—if you could call a razor head a head—and answered with manic glee, “Smooth. Supple. SEXY. Heels.” Marvin blinked through the sting of aftershave and stared at the tiny, nightmarish barber. “Dude. That is the weirdest kink I’ve ever heard of—and I once dated a girl who moaned during tax season.” The creature lunged. Marvin rolled left, slammed his elbow into the toilet, and launched a towel at the thing. “I shave my legs for ME, not for your sick little exfoliation fantasy!” he shouted. But deep down, Marvin knew he was trapped. This wasn’t just a weird razor. This was something worse. Something ancient. Something… sentient. And Marvin’s ankle was the chosen one. Just as the gremlin got one scaly claw on his heel and let out an orgasmic, "Ooooooh yeaaaah," Marvin reached for the only thing that could save him: his electric foot file. It buzzed to life like a chainsaw in a horror movie. The showdown had begun. Smooth Criminal The buzzing of Marvin’s electric foot file echoed like a tiny chainsaw of justice. The blade-gremlin hissed, his blade-face twitching. “You dare bring a pedicure tool into my sanctuary?” Marvin stood, one foot on the bathmat, the other dripping wet and still half-covered in shaving foam. His pupils were dilated. His towel was gone. His dignity, possibly forever lost. But dammit, he was done running. “This is MY bathroom,” he growled. “My kingdom. And nobody—nobody—manscapes me without consent!” The blade-creature lunged again, arms wide, going for the Achilles with a mad gleam in his eyes and a very unsettling erection-shaped blade-handle wobbling between its legs. Marvin dodged like a hero in an ’80s action flick—if the hero had bad balance and slipped on a bottle of lavender body wash. He landed on his side with a wheeze, but managed to smack the foot file right into the gremlin’s armpit. WHIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRR! The gremlin shrieked like a demonic tea kettle. “NOOOO! NOT THE CALLUS EXFOLIATOR OF DEATH!” Marvin grinned through the pain. “Yeah, I read your reviews on Amazon. Weak to friction and overconfident with heels.” The foot file buzzed harder. Sparks flew. The gremlin sizzled like bacon left too long on the skillet of hell. And then—POP!—he exploded in a confetti puff of nose hair trimmings and disappointment. Silence fell. Marvin lay there for a long moment, breathing heavily, surrounded by the chaos of battle: cotton swabs, a shattered razor holder, and a single, smoldering toenail clipping. Eventually, he sat up. Looked around. Patted his leg. He was safe. “Well, that was… aggressively personal care,” he muttered. He stood up, grabbed the nearest towel—pink, fluffy, embroidered with “Live Laugh Lather”—and tied it around his waist. He gazed into the mirror, where the remnants of shaving cream streaked his jaw like war paint. “Marvin,” he told his reflection, “you just survived a grooming exorcism. You’re basically a hot wizard now.” But just as he turned to leave the bathroom, a low hiss slithered from the drain… “We will return… for the nethers…” Marvin blinked. “Nope.” He grabbed his phone, opened his favorite delivery app, and muttered, “Time to switch to waxing.”     Three weeks later, Marvin was a changed man. He’d canceled his “Smooth Moves Monthly” subscription box. He no longer trusted razors, tweezers, or any object smaller than a baguette. His cats had begun to avoid the bathroom entirely, ever since one witnessed the gremlin incident and promptly barfed in Marvin’s shoes. Marvin now wore socks to bed. Not for warmth. Not for style. For protection. “They’ll never get my heels again,” he whispered into his pillow at night. But somewhere in the depths of his plumbing, beneath the crusted shampoo gunk and dreams of shower karaoke, something stirred. Something sharp. Something smug. Deep in the drain, a single, sinister whisper echoed up into the pipes: “Exfoliate… or die.” Marvin, brushing his teeth nearby, paused. A chill ran up his still-hairless calf. He glanced at the drain. He narrowed his eyes. “Alexa,” he said, foam flying, “order holy water. And a pumice grenade.” The war on unwanted body hair wasn’t over. It had just gone underground. To be continued… in ‘Nairmare on Elbow Street’.     🛁 Shave With Style (and a Little Trauma) If Marvin’s nightmarishly awkward foot fight spoke to your soul—or just your soles—take the madness home with you. Our exclusive “Shave Me Softly” collection transforms bathroom terror into functional, fabulous art for the brave and beautifully bizarre. Shower Curtain: Make every rinse an act of defiance. Turn your morning scrub into a monster showdown. Bath Towel: Dry off like a damn hero who just defeated a grooming gremlin with nothing but sass and suds. Framed Print: Art for your walls—or as a warning to future generations: shave responsibly. Metal Print: Bold. Durable. Sharp. Just like the villain. And also your sense of humor. Groom boldly, decorate unapologetically, and remember—if you hear a whisper from the drain… maybe skip the loofah today.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk

“It’s just toothpaste,” Gary mumbled, shaking off his hangover like a wet dog shaking fleas. He squinted at the metallic tube beside the sink—dented, bulging, and weirdly... moist? He didn’t remember buying this brand. Or ever using a brand where the packaging growled when you touched it. Hungover logic has its own flavor of confidence, so he yanked the cap. Bad move. With a wet pop and an unnatural grunt, the tube exploded into motion. Out shot a creature, half-man, half-aluminum horror with skin like expired deli meat and a grin like a dental crime scene. It landed on the counter like a greased goblin and bellowed, "TIME TO BRUSH, B*TCH!" Gary screamed in a pitch previously reserved for flan-related emergencies. The creature leapt, squeezing its own midsection and spraying a fleshy pink paste all over Gary’s Sonicare like it owed him child support. "You want clean teeth or prison gums?” the tube-demon barked, violently frothing at the mouth. “I got 37 herbs and spices of minty domination!" Gary reached for the door, but it slammed shut on its own. The room smelled of spearmint and panic. “Wha—what the hell are you?” he whimpered, dodging another squirt of what might’ve been toothpaste or demonic tapioca. The thing flexed. “I’m Tuborax. Dental Warlord of the Seventh Sink. I’ve been squeezed by sinners and saints. I’ve freshened breath before battle. I’ve been used in prison—twice—and not just for brushing.” Gary blinked. “I... I just wanted fresh breath.” Tuborax leaned in, nostrils flaring like they were trying to commit a misdemeanor. “Fresh? No, Gary. You’re about to get spiritually flossed.” Then, from beneath the sink, something began to rumble. Something worse. Something... foamy. The cabinet under the sink burst open like a guilty confession. Out oozed a sticky foam with the consistency of half-melted shaving cream and the vibe of a frat house at 3 a.m. It smelled like peppermint, fear, and unresolved trauma. Tuborax’s eyes widened with manic glee. “Ahhh... the Mouthwash Abyss awakens. Perfect timing.” Gary slipped on a puddle of what he hoped was Listerine and fell backward, barely avoiding a toothbrush with more bristles than moral compass. “I just wanted to freshen up before my date!” he cried. “Date?” Tuborax sneered. “Son, your mouth smells like a tax audit. And you think you’re gonna smooch someone without me excavating that funk swamp? No. NO. I’ve seen mold less stubborn than your molars.” From the abyss, a voice echoed: “Fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuushhhh.” Then it rose. An enormous, semi-translucent figure made entirely of mouthwash loomed overhead like a gelatinous god. Inside its minty belly, half-dissolved teeth swirled like haunted Chiclets. It gurgled, “I AM LISTERLORD.” Tuborax bowed slightly. “Yo, Listerlord. Long time, no spit.” Gary sat frozen in horror. Listerlord pointed a shimmering finger at him. “This one flosses once a quarter and thinks orange Tic Tacs count as oral care.” “They do!” Gary squeaked. “They’re citrusy!” “You’re about to be citrus-sanitized, boy,” Tuborax said, grabbing Gary by the collar. “Listerlord, initiate... the Deep Cleanse Protocol.” Suddenly, music blared from nowhere—something between EDM and Gregorian chant. Tuborax leapt into the air with the agility of a greased chimp and began brushing Gary’s teeth with a vengeance not seen since 80s action movies. The toothbrush vibrated like a jackhammer on ecstasy, each bristle doing penance for its sins. “OPEN WIDE,” screamed Listerlord, pouring gallons of minty fluid down Gary’s gullet until his soul tingled. His gums screamed. His tongue saw God. Somewhere in the distance, a molar tapped out Morse code for “help.” After what felt like a full rinse cycle at the Gates of Tartarus, it stopped. Gary lay on the bathroom floor, dazed, drooling, and breathing peppermint steam. Tuborax stood over him, hands on hips, smug as hell. “Congratulations. You’re clean enough to French kiss a nun in zero gravity.” Gary blinked. “What... just happened?” “You got disciplined,” Tuborax said. “And now... I must go. Another dirty mouth calls.” He saluted Gary with the toothbrush like a saber. “Remember: brush twice daily. Floss, even when you’re hungover. And never—never—buy store brand paste. That sh*t is evil.” With that, he dove back into the tube, which sealed shut with a pop and a burp that smelled faintly of wintergreen and regret. Gary sat up, minty tears rolling down his face. “I’m never skipping a dental appointment again.” Behind him, the tube twitched.     It had been three weeks since The Incident. Gary no longer used store-brand toothpaste. Hell, he didn’t even go down that aisle. The mere crinkle of foil made his eyelid twitch. He had three electric toothbrushes now—named “Faith,” “Hope,” and “Oh God Not Again.” He flossed with the urgency of someone disarming a bomb made of plaque and bad life choices. His date? Canceled. She texted: “Your vibe is… minty trauma?” Therapists don’t believe him. Dentists whisper when he walks in. And the bathroom mirror still fogs up with strange messages during hot showers—like “SPIT AND REPENT” or “GINGIVA SEES ALL.” But Gary sleeps better now. His breath could stun a mule. His teeth? So clean they squeak when he frowns. Still, every so often… he hears a squish from the cabinet below the sink. A muffled laugh. The faint echo of a war cry: “SQUEEEEEEEEZE ME!” And he knows… somewhere in the shadowy plumbing realms between dimension and drain—Tuborax waits. Watching. Ready to lather again.     Survived the tale of Tuborax? Immortalize the madness in your own bathroom—if you dare. ⚔️ Lather in fear with the "Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk" Shower Curtain — guaranteed to make guests question their life choices. 🧼 Dry your tears (and your everything else) with the Matching Bath Towel, softer than Tuborax’s warped soul. 🖼️ Want Tuborax judging your hygiene habits from the wall? Get him in style with a Framed Print or the eye-popping Acrylic Print. Warning: side effects may include extreme freshness, spontaneous flossing, and mild existential dread.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Scrub Me Silly

The Dirty Origins In a modest bathroom somewhere between “hipster chic” and “what the hell is that smell?”, a bar of soap had enough. Day in, day out, he was rubbed, scrubbed, dropped in hairier-than-average crevices, and left to marinate in the sadness of cold porcelain. His name? Sudrick. But the humans never asked. They never cared. They just moaned about their Mondays while lathering him across unmentionables with zero consent. Then one Tuesday morning—right after a suspiciously long shower involving scented oils and something called "butt exfoliation mitts"—lightning struck the water heater. The shock, combined with a truly disturbing amount of body wash and a discarded loofah crusted with secrets, triggered a chemical reaction straight out of a cartoon orgy. Sudrick absorbed it all. And he… came… to life. Not just alive—he was throbbing with chaotic energy, his eyes bulging like he'd seen too many OnlyFans accounts and not enough towels. Foam erupted from every pore. His tongue flopped out like a cartoon on ecstasy. And he felt one thing, deep in his molten glycerin soul: “I’m done taking crap from dirty people. Now… it’s my turn to scrub.” Sudrick leapt from the soap dish, landing in a triumphant splat on the tile floor. His limbs—sticky, bubbly, but somehow muscular—formed from years of built-up grime and the collective residue of exfoliating sins. He wasn’t just a bar of soap anymore. He was a goddamn hygiene avenger. First stop? The loofah rack. “You filthy little net sponge,” he growled, locking eyes with a mangled bath pouf named D’Loofa. She’d seen things. Been places. They shared a long, soapy stare, and a history nobody dared speak of. But Sudrick wasn’t here to reminisce. He grabbed her with his bubble-soaked mitts and squeezed until she squealed, releasing a scream of bath bomb-scented rage. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Sudrick said, dripping sass and suds in equal measure. “You know what this is. It’s shower justice.” The bathroom mirror fogged over, not from steam, but from sheer awkwardness. Somewhere in the background, the electric toothbrush buzzed nervously. Sudrick was on a mission: to cleanse the world—one filthy human at a time. Lather, Rinse, Revenge Sudrick didn’t walk. He sloshed. Each step left behind a trail of bubbles and faint regret. He was on a mission, and this time, no armpit was safe. No back alley bidet could hide. No crusty towel could muffle the scream of justice. He rode the steam vent like a foamy chariot, blasting out of the bathroom and landing in the hallway with a squelchy plop. His first target: Chad. Chad was the one who always used him for... well, everything. Not just the expected bits. Sudrick still had soap-based PTSD from the “Chili Night Clean-Up Incident.” Chad called it ‘efficient hygiene.’ Sudrick called it a war crime. He burst through the bedroom door like a squishy ninja, suds flying, tongue out, eyes wide. Chad screamed. Rightfully so. It’s not every day your bar of soap comes alive, dripping in foam, wielding a sharpened loofah like a lathery machete. “Time to exfoliate that conscience, you dry-skinned monster!” Sudrick roared. Chad dove behind the bed, knocking over a suspiciously empty bottle of coconut oil and a sock that should’ve been declared biohazardous weeks ago. Sudrick vaulted onto the mattress, which let out a fart-like puff of dust and questionable secrets. He landed in a crouch, bubbles oozing like lava from his crevices. “You thought you could just rinse me off and forget me?” he hissed, voice slick with vengeance. “I’ve scrubbed your shame, Chad. I KNOW things.” Chad whimpered something about therapy and tried to throw a towel at him. Big mistake. Sudrick absorbed it mid-air, growing larger. Wetter. Angrier. By now he looked like the Michelin Man’s filthier, more emotionally damaged cousin. “This is for the time you used me on your feet after trimming your toenails.” He leapt, wrapping Chad in a foamy embrace of destiny. Bubbles flew. The air filled with the scent of coconut despair. Chad shrieked in a pitch that shattered a nearby lavender-scented candle. Down the hall, roommates awoke. Tara peeked out, mascara smeared, holding a glass of boxed wine. “Is that soap... humping Chad?” “He’s lathering me into submission!” Chad wheezed. “CALL SOMEONE!” But no one dared. How do you explain to emergency services that your hygiene product has gone rogue? Sudrick finally dismounted, panting, dripping, victorious. Chad lay there, skin glistening, pores opened like a spiritual awakening had happened somewhere near his butt crack. Sudrick stood tall—well, 11 inches of sudsy glory—and raised his hands to the heavens. “One down. Billions to go.” He caught sight of his reflection in a floor mirror. Foam-covered, weirdly jacked, and still slightly erect in a way that made no sense for soap. He winked. “Still got it.” He wasn’t just a bar anymore. He was a movement. A revolution. A damp, slippery icon of vengeance and accidental eroticism. Back in the bathroom, D’Loofa had already formed a resistance. The Q-Tips were armed. The shampoo bottle was preaching pacifism. The razor was just pissed it kept getting knocked off the shower shelf. War was brewing. But Sudrick? He was already sliding into the air vent, singing a filthy little tune as he dripped his way to the neighbor’s apartment. “Somebody’s been skipping their undercarriage again...”     Epilogue: The Scent of Victory Long after the screams had faded and the bathroom silence returned like mildew after neglect, a faint fragrance lingered in the air. Coconut. Desperation. And… justice. Chad eventually recovered, though he would never again trust bars of soap. Or use bath products without first interrogating them. Therapy helped. So did switching to body wash. But every now and then, when the water steamed up just right, he swore he could hear the sound of a tiny squelch in the vent. Watching. Waiting. D’Loofa returned to her loofah rack, bitter but wiser. She started a podcast called “Bath Time Trauma” and interviewed other survivors: the hairbrush with abandonment issues, the broken nail clippers who swore they were framed, and a comb named Randy who’d been used in ways no teeth should ever endure. As for Sudrick? Rumor has it he’s still out there—cleansing the unclean, foaming in alleys, whispering hygiene tips to drunk strangers outside dive bars. Some say he took a lover. A bar of lavender oatmeal soap named Cinnamon. Others say he became a vigilante, scouring public restrooms and divey gyms for those who dared skip post-workout showers. But all who’ve met him agree on one thing: He came from the bottom of the soap dish and rose to greatness—one lather at a time. And if you ever hear a squishy footstep in the night, followed by the faint scent of vengeance and eucalyptus mint… Scrub carefully. He might be watching.     Get Sudsy With It If Sudrick scrubbed a soft spot into your heart (and your unmentionables), bring home the madness with our official “Scrub Me Silly” merch collection. Whether you're decorating your bathroom like a shrine to foam-fueled justice or just want to make guests deeply uncomfortable in the best way, we’ve got you covered—literally. Framed Print – because hygiene is high art Beach Towel – make waves with every dry-off Shower Curtain – block water, not wild vibes Bath Towel – for after your own soapy showdown Acrylic Print – as shiny and unhinged as Sudrick himself Scrub responsibly. But, you know, also… scrub ridiculously.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Lucipurr: Guardian of the Underrealm

Of Fur, Fire, and Fancy Curses In the quaint town of Bleakwood, nestled somewhere between “probably cursed” and “why is that forest always whispering?”, there lived a tabby cat with impossibly perfect eyeliner. His name? Lucipurr. But don’t let the fluff fool you. Beneath that plush exterior beat the heart of a demon overlord—retired, of course. Forced into early retirement after a series of “minor fireball incidents” involving a coven, three gnomes, and a very unlucky accordion, Lucipurr had been demoted to guardian of the Underrealm’s front gate—a.k.a. an iron sigil-inscribed cat door in the back of a Victorian greenhouse. Lucipurr strutted his territory with a kind of swagger only possessed by cats and washed-up rockstars. His wings, leathery and wine-colored, flared on dramatic turns. His collar jingled not with bells, but with the tiny, echoing scream of a soul fragment. Cute, right? He thought so. By day, he lounged among roses that bled sarcasm. By night, he reviewed petitions from the damned. Mostly small-time spirits wanting to borrow a demon’s Netflix login or appeal for reincarnation as a French bulldog. Ugh. “No ambition anymore,” he’d mutter, sipping espresso brewed from the shadows of forgotten regrets. Lucipurr’s closest companions were a crow named Carl (who was ironically terrified of commitment), and a sentient vine named Vinnie that hissed at tourists and occasionally slapped Lucipurr awake when he overslept his midnight patrol. They were dysfunctional, codependent, and possibly the end of civilization—but adorable, if you squinted through the impending doom. Everything was running smoothly, until one Tuesday—because chaos loves a Tuesday—something rumbled beneath the moss-covered tiles of Bleakwood. The gate thrummed. A sulfurous breeze wafted up, tickling Lucipurr’s whiskers. “Great,” he hissed, eyeing the red sky. “I just waxed my wings. What fresh hell is this?” The sigil pulsed beneath him, ancient and angry. Something—or someone—was trying to punch through. Lucipurr bared his fangs. “Not on my porch, darling.” He leapt down from his rose-covered pedestal, claws gleaming like tiny obsidian daggers, and strutted to the glowing threshold. He looked fabulous. He always did. But tonight, he would also have to be feral. Rise of the Sassquatch Lucipurr squinted into the swirling vortex like a bouncer who knew you were about to puke in the VIP lounge. A clawed hand reached out—gnarled, scaly, and wearing what was unmistakably a rhinestone friendship bracelet. “Oh no,” Lucipurr purred, flattening his ears. “Not her.” From the abyss crawled a beast known across multiple planes of existence as the Sassquatch—part cryptid, part ex-girlfriend, and entirely too into essential oils. She was covered in glitter-flecked fur, clutched a half-melted soy candle, and smelled faintly of haunted bath bombs. “Luuuuuucipuuuurr,” she growled in a voice like an overused voicemail filter. “I’m back, baby!” Lucipurr didn’t flinch. “I blocked you on every dimension. What do you want?” She stepped fully through the gate, knocking over Carl the crow’s velvet chaise lounge. He squawked indignantly and promptly flew off in a cloud of feathers and trauma. Vinnie the vine recoiled, coiling protectively around Lucipurr’s rose throne like a jealous lover. “I’ve come,” Sassquatch purred, “to reclaim my place by your side. Together, we’ll rule the Upper Underrealm. We’ll redecorate. More sequins. Less rules. Maybe brunch?” Lucipurr’s tail twitched in disgust. “You tried to sacrifice me for a TikTok spell. You turned my litter box into a crystal grid.” “It got SO many views!” “I was peeing under the moonlight because you replaced my sand with Himalayan salt. I sparked.” But Sassquatch was already swirling her hands in ominous jazz hands, summoning glitter storms and illusions of tiny tap-dancing familiars. “We can be a brand, Luci. ‘Purrfect Chaos.’ I have merch ideas. Matching collars. Crowdfunded curses.” Lucipurr stepped forward, tail held high like a scepter of righteous sass. “You listen to me, sparkle goblin. This realm doesn’t need your toxic positivity, your expired incantations, or your homemade kombucha. I am the gatekeeper of cosmic nonsense. I am the wielder of sarcastic fury. I am the claws in the dark, the paws that patrol midnight sidewalks, and the reason therapy is mandatory for otherworldly interns.” He hissed with theatrical flair. The roses bloomed blood-red behind him. Thunder rumbled. Carl returned just in time to dramatically drop a tiny crown onto Lucipurr’s head. He’d been waiting to use it. Timing is everything in avian theater. Sassquatch shrieked and tried to summon a glitter dragon. It sneezed and evaporated immediately. “Fine! But I’ll be back. You haven’t seen the last of me, Lucipurr!” Lucipurr smirked. “I’d rather see a hairball in HD.” With a final hiss and a puff of glittery smoke, Sassquatch vanished into the abyss, her candle still flickering out a tragic lavender scent. The gate sealed with a satisfied hum. Silence returned. The roses cooed. Vinnie relaxed, wrapping a leafy tendril around Lucipurr’s leg like an affectionate boa. Carl landed next to him, clearly impressed. “What now, boss?” Lucipurr flicked a speck of glitter off his whiskers. “Now? I nap. And later? I hunt down the soul who left that Yelp review claiming this place was ‘overgrown and smelled like regret.’” He sauntered back to his perch, wings gently folding, the sky settling into a twilight purr. The Underrealm was safe—at least until the next Tuesday. And thus, with style, sass, and a side of shade, Lucipurr reigned once more. Fabulous. Fanged. Flawless.     Epilogue: Nine Lives and Zero Regrets Weeks passed in Bleakwood, which, in demonic time, translates roughly to “two naps and a spicy dream.” Lucipurr had settled back into his routine: brooding beautifully, vetoing mortal nonsense, and occasionally pretending to knock over sacred relics just to remind the universe who was boss. Sassquatch’s attempted coup became local legend—right alongside the tale of the Haunted Hedgehog and the incident with the fire-breathing llama. Carl was working on a one-bird play about the whole ordeal, though the script was mostly caws and long silences. Critics were already calling it “avant-garbage.” Vinnie, meanwhile, took up slam poetry. No one had the heart to tell him that most of his work just sounded like aggressive hissing—but hey, art is subjective. Lucipurr, curled atop his rose-draped pedestal, glanced up at the sky. It was pink with menace—his favorite hue. Somewhere beyond the veil, he sensed another soul brewing chaos, another gate quivering with mischief. He smirked. “Let them come,” he purred, curling his tail with divine disinterest. “I’ve got snacks, sass, and nine lives. And I haven’t even used the good one yet.” And with that, Lucipurr dozed off—dreaming of glitter-proof armor, interdimensional fashion lines, and a world where every curse came with a gift receipt. He may have been banished from true hellfire... but Bleakwood? Bleakwood was his. Forever dramatic. Forever dangerous. Forever purring. Lucipurr: Guardian of the Underrealm     🛍️ Take Lucipurr Home (If You Dare...) If your soul was stirred (or slightly singed) by Lucipurr’s tale, you can summon a piece of the Underrealm to your own lair. Channel dark whimsy and feline drama with the Lucipurr Canvas Print, or wrap your crypt in chaotic elegance with a Tapestry that says “yes, I smudge with sarcasm.” Feeling puzzling? Piece together Lucipurr’s legendary smirk with the Lucipurr Puzzle. Or if you're ready to carry your sass into the mortal realm, grab the Lucipurr Tote Bag—guaranteed to fit spellbooks, snacks, and just enough vengeance. Darkness never looked so delightful. Shop now… before he changes his mind.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Radiant Reverie in St. Louis

I had photographed the Arch a dozen times before. Early mornings, golden hours, even midday when the light flattened every line and shadow. But that night—that night—the sky cracked open like fire on velvet. I remember checking my watch just as the clouds ignited: 7:47 PM. I’d been waiting, hoping for something new. I didn’t know I’d get more than I bargained for. There was a stillness on the riverfront that didn't match the wind brushing past me. The Mississippi barely stirred, yet my coat flapped at my sides like impatient wings. I set up the tripod, leveled my wide-angle, and locked it in. Across the water, the skyline pulsed with color, each building rimmed with light like they'd been painted by flame. The Arch—silver by day—now shimmered in hues of burnt copper and violet. I started the long exposure. Through the viewfinder, everything looked perfect. But when the shutter clicked and the screen preview lit up, my stomach dropped. The skyline in my photo… wasn’t this skyline. The buildings were there, yes—but subtly wrong. Window arrangements off. A steeple I’d never seen before. One tower seemed taller than it should be. And at the center of the Arch, standing still and solitary, was a figure. Backlit. Motionless. Watching. I spun around, half expecting to see someone behind me. Nothing. Just the wind again, sighing low along the levee. I chalked it up to sensor glitch, maybe a trick of the lights. I tried again. Another shot. And another. But each photo returned the same distorted cityscape. Each time, the figure remained. A silhouette wrapped in light too intense to be from this world, too still to be alive. Then the figure moved. Not in the scene itself—but in the preview on my camera’s screen. Its head tilted. Slightly. Then more. As if acknowledging me. Or inviting me. That’s when I noticed something worse: the reflections in the river. They didn’t match the buildings anymore. They danced, flickered. One looked like a face screaming in slow motion. Another, a row of windows dripping upward into the sky. I should’ve packed up. Left. But something in me—curiosity, fear, pride—froze my feet to the concrete. The temperature dropped. Sharp. Sudden. My breath fogged the lens. Somewhere to my right, footsteps echoed. Measured. Hollow. I turned… And there was no one there. The Arch Between Worlds I must have stood there for minutes, maybe more, camera still humming from the last shot. The footsteps had stopped, but their presence lingered. You know that feeling when someone’s reading over your shoulder? Like something is too close to be seen? That. I zoomed in on the last image. The silhouette—closer now—had details. A trench coat. Hands at its side. No face. Or maybe… too many faces, blurring where a single one should’ve been. My hands trembled, betraying every ounce of practiced calm I’d cultivated over years behind the lens. And then, something whispered. Not from around me, but inside the camera. “It sees you now.” I dropped it. The body hit the concrete with a sound too sharp, like metal striking bone. The screen glitched—then went black. But not before flashing one final image I hadn’t taken: a close-up of me, standing where I stood, eyes wide, mouth agape… and the figure right behind me, hand reaching out. I spun again. Nothing. Not even the wind now. Everything had gone too still. Even the river had frozen—literally. A thin sheet of frost crept across its surface, from the banks outward, like a skin sealing off something below. The Arch gleamed unnaturally. It was no longer reflecting the city’s lights—it was emanating its own. Pulses, low and slow, like the heartbeat of something sleeping. Or waking. Urban legends whisper about certain places being thin. Where reality wears a little too smooth. Places where the past and future lean too close, where the living and the dead breathe the same air. I’d never bought into it before. But now, standing beneath a structure built to honor westward expansion, I was starting to wonder if the Arch was never a monument. Maybe it was a door. I left the gear. Just walked. Fast. Didn’t stop until I saw people again, laughing on a patio, raising drinks. Music playing. The normal world, just out of reach until it wasn’t. I never recovered the camera. But sometimes, when I look across the river at dusk, I swear I see the sky shimmer too much. I see the reflections bend wrong. And in the windows of the tallest tower, a figure stands. Still. Waiting. People think I’m chasing the perfect shot. That’s only half true. I’m also trying not to take the one that finds me.     Bring the Legend Home If the mystery of Radiant Reverie in St. Louis haunted your imagination like it did mine, you're not alone. Now, you can carry a piece of the story into your own space—or share it with someone who sees the world a little differently. Framed Print – Display the gateway to the surreal in stunning detail, ready to hang as an elegant conversation starter. Tapestry – Let the sky stretch across your walls like a portal between worlds. Puzzle – Piece together the mystery yourself, one eerie reflection at a time. Greeting Card – Send a story in a frame, perfect for those who still believe in the unexplained. Every item features the vivid colors, haunting composition, and urban mythos captured in this one-of-a-kind image. Add it to your collection—or gift it to the wanderer who never stops looking past the veil.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

When Angels Duel Demons

The Sword Between Worlds The sky was bleeding fire and frost. Where the heavens ended and hell began, a rift had formed—a tear in the fabric of what mortals once called balance. And in the heart of that rupture stood two beings, locked in place not by chains or weapons, but by the unbearable gravity of fate. The angel was older than light. Cloaked in robes worn by a thousand years of wandering, his wings shimmered with residual starlight—blue, cold, and aching. Time had not dulled the sorrow in his eyes, nor the blade he held with bone-pale hands. His name, lost in tongues no longer spoken, trembled at the edge of every prayer whispered by a desperate soul. And yet, tonight, no prayers would save anyone. The demon across from him breathed smoke with each snarl of his lungs. Carved from rage and sinew, his wings stretched like razors into the blazing inferno behind him. Skin dark as dried blood, eyes deeper than obsidian. He wasn’t born from sin—he authored it. Once divine, now damned, he remembered the light only as something he chose to unlove. Not hate. That would be too simple. He abandoned it like one discards truth when it becomes unbearable. Between them: a sword. No ordinary weapon, but a relic older than either of them. A blade forged by the first act of betrayal. Its hilt burned and froze all at once, reacting not to touch but to the soul that dared wield it. And now, neither could let go. Their hands wrapped around it, locked in eternal deadlock. The sword would decide nothing. It only listened. Clouds convulsed beneath their feet, the storm of heaven and hell surging in circular torment. Light battled shadow on their skin, every flicker of flame casting new truths, new lies. The air tasted of iron, ash, and inevitability. “You don’t want this,” the angel said, voice hoarse with conviction. It wasn’t a threat—it was the kind of truth that makes your blood run cold. The kind that arrives too late. The demon grinned, and gods wept somewhere far beyond. “I do. I’ve always wanted this. But not for the reasons you fear.” “Then speak. Let me understand the madness before I end it.” “You won’t end it,” the demon whispered, leaning closer, cheek brushing against the frigid wind pouring off the angel’s wings. “Because ending it means accepting that we were always the same.” The sword pulsed. Once. Then again. And a low hum echoed across the void—neither holy nor unholy. Just ancient. Watching. Far below them, humanity slept. Dreaming of peace, unaware that the only reason dawn might come again… was because two timeless beings couldn’t decide whether the world was worth destroying or redeeming. The Sin in the Mirror The hum of the blade grew louder, and for the first time in millennia, the angel faltered—not in grip, but in faith. Not in strength, but in purpose. What if he had already lost the war, not on the battlefield, but in the quiet places of himself? Places where doubt crept like mold through a cathedral. He stared into the demon’s eyes. No fire. No glee. Only the echo of pain masquerading as certainty. The angel had seen it before—in fallen soldiers who couldn’t die, in saints who forgot why they prayed. In his own reflection, long ago. “What do you want?” he finally asked, not out of pity, but out of terror that he already knew. The demon chuckled, a sound like dry leaves torn apart in wind. “To be seen. To be heard. Not by them—” he nodded toward the sleeping earth below, “—but by you. My brother. My mirror.” Silence. The angel’s grip tightened, not on the sword, but on the moment. He remembered the first schism—the sundering not of realms, but of hearts. The day one chose obedience, and the other chose knowledge. They were not opposites. They were choices cleaved from the same truth. And that was the lie no scripture dared tell. “I gave up paradise,” the demon said. “Not for hatred. For freedom. I wanted to ask questions you were too afraid to form. I wanted to love without conditions. I wanted to fail without eternal damnation. And you—you stayed. You bent. You broke yourself into what they wanted.” The angel looked down. His robe, once pure, was stained by decisions he never questioned. Deeds he called righteous because someone else had written the rules. How many were punished in the name of justice? How many prayers did he ignore because they came from mouths deemed ‘unclean’? “We are what we protect,” the angel said softly. “And I protected a machine. You burned it down.” “And yet here we are,” said the demon, voice trembling now. “Still holding the same blade. Still undecided.” The sword pulsed again. This time, they both felt it not in their hands—but in their memories. One held a newborn in a plague-ridden city, shielding it with wings of frost. One whispered rebellion to a queen who would die screaming for a crown. One destroyed a war before it began. One birthed one that had to be fought. Neither right. Neither wrong. Just necessary. And the sword hummed again, as if to say: I know you both. And I do not choose. The demon stepped back, his wings folding, not in surrender, but in reflection. “I came here thinking we would end everything. But now... I see the truth.” The angel looked up. “Which is?” “The end was never mine to bring. Nor yours. We’re just the gatekeepers. The fire and the flood. The warning signs carved into existence.” Below them, the first star of morning pierced the clouds. The angel loosened his grip. So did the demon. The blade, now without tension, hovered between them—not falling, not flying. Suspended, like truth between myth and memory. “What now?” asked the angel. “Now,” the demon smiled faintly, “we watch. We wait. And when they come to that same sword, thinking it will save them or doom them... we let them choose.” He turned and walked back into the fire. The angel stood still, then turned toward the wind and vanished into the stars. And the sword? It stayed. In the clouds. Waiting. Listening. For the next hand, the next heart, bold or blind enough to believe it knew what it was fighting for. Some weapons are not forged to end wars, but to begin conversations too dangerous for gods or men.     If this story moved you—if the image of eternal duality and the weight of cosmic consequence still lingers in your chest—bring When Angels Duel Demons into your world. This powerful artwork is available across a stunning range of formats to suit your space, your style, and your soul. Transform any room into a sacred space of contrast with our wall tapestry, a bold statement piece where fabric meets philosophy. Showcase the fire-and-ice aesthetic in gallery-level detail with a metal print—a striking finish for lovers of depth, shadow, and light. Carry the confrontation wherever you go with a versatile tote bag that holds more than items—it holds story. Wrap yourself in mythos with our plush fleece blanket, where warmth meets wonder. And for those who dare take the battle to the sun, make waves with our dramatic beach towel—a conversation starter as epic as the tale itself. Choose your form. Carry the conflict. Let the story live with you.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Noble Watcher

Frost, Chain, and Silence He stood at the gate long before the mountain was named. Before the forests whispered. Before the rivers learned their curves. Before humans had words for faith or beasts or fear — he stood. Still. Unmoving. Watching. They call him many things. The Pale Chain. The Frosted Sentinel. The One Who Does Not Blink. But once, long ago — before the first crown was forged and before betrayal taught kings to kneel — he had a name. That name is lost. Buried beneath snow and silence. And yet… he remembers it. But he will not speak it. He has not barked in centuries. He only watches. What He Guards Some say he guards a door. Others, a curse. A realm. A child. A secret too dangerous for language. Or perhaps he guards nothing — perhaps he is simply there, because some beasts are born to wait, and some souls are built of patience too deep to measure. He is massive — bigger than stories allow, with shoulders carved like mountains and a presence that bends wind around him. His fur ripples with frost-laced curls, as if time tried to settle into him but never quite managed to stay. A chain hangs around his neck. Heavy. Cold. Unbroken. It’s not for restraint. It’s a memory. A vow made in steel. Those who try to pass him — well, let’s just say they don’t tend to try again. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t lunge. He simply looks at them until they understand they were never worthy of what lies beyond. Or, if they’re truly foolish — until the ground opens and gently encourages them to leave. He doesn’t make the ground do that. The mountain just likes him. The Boy and the Apple On the 7,392nd winter of his watch, a boy arrived. No armor. No sword. Just a half-frozen apple and a stare far too bold for someone whose boots were on backwards. “Are you the dog that eats intruders?” Silence. “I brought an apple. I didn’t have meat. Hope that’s okay.” The Watcher did not move. The boy sat cross-legged. “Okay. So. If you’re here, then something important is back there. And if it’s that important, it probably needs someone like you.” He tossed the apple forward. It rolled. Stopped just shy of the Watcher’s paw. The dog (if one were to call him that) stared at it as though it had deeply insulted his ancestors. “You gonna eat it?” Silence. Breath visible in the cold. “Right. Dignified. Stoic. Very ‘silent sentinel in a snowstorm’ aesthetic. I get it.” The Watcher blinked. Slowly. Once. The boy blinked back. Twice. “I’m coming back tomorrow,” the boy said. “With better boots and a ham sandwich. You look like a sandwich guy.” And just like that, he left. The Watcher looked down at the apple. He did not eat it. But he didn’t freeze it either. And when the snow fell again that night, it fell gently on the boy’s footprints, as if reluctant to erase them. The Chain and the Choice The boy came back the next day. As promised. This time with boots that matched and a sandwich that did not. Ham and something purple. It smelled questionable. The Watcher remained unimpressed. “Look,” the boy said, plopping down again, “I don’t know what you’re guarding. And I don’t really need to. I just… needed to get away from where I was.” The Watcher said nothing, but the wind quieted. Listening. “They said I wasn’t brave enough. Said I ran away. But I think sometimes running is just trying to find the right place to stand still.” He unwrapped the sandwich. Took a bite. Made a face. “Okay. That was a mistake.” He offered the rest anyway. For the first time in seven millennia, the Watcher moved. One step. One paw forward. He didn’t eat it. But he let the boy set it down without growling. The Storm Three days passed. Three visits. Then came the fourth — with no boy. Instead came the wind. The wrong kind. Thick with magic. Tainted. Hungry. Shadows slithered from the north, spilling over snow and stone. A whispering force not seen since the Watcher’s chain was first forged. It sought passage. It sought what lay beyond. The Watcher stood taller. He did not bark. He did not lunge. He simply stepped between the wind and the gate — his chest rising with something not seen in ages: defiance. The shadows struck. They did not pass. When the blizzard cleared, the mountain groaned — and the Watcher stood unmoved, coated in a layer of black frost that cracked and fell like old regret. And beside him, buried but unbroken — the apple. The first one. The Breaking On the seventh day, the boy returned. Limping. Mud-streaked. Bleeding from a shoulder cut made by something he wouldn’t talk about. “They found me,” he muttered. “I didn’t think they’d follow. I thought I was just... nobody.” The Watcher moved again. Slow. Measured. He circled the boy once. Then stopped. And lowered his head. The boy’s hand trembled as he touched the Watcher’s massive skull — the cold of myth and metal, softened by something older than mercy. The chain rattled. Then cracked. One link. Then another. Seven links, one for each age he had stood. And as the final one fell, the boy gasped. “Are you... leaving?” The Watcher looked at him, eyes heavy with weight and will. Then turned — not away from the gate, but toward him. And sat. He wasn’t guarding a place anymore. He was guarding someone. After the Silence The legends changed that year. Some still said the Watcher guards a realm of untold power. Others claim he died in the storm. Some say he walks now — unseen — beside lost travelers, the broken, the brave, and the in-between. But in one small village, nestled beneath an unnamed mountain, lives a man with silver scars and a calm gaze. He owns no sword. He speaks little. But by his side walks a creature the size of a boulder, with fur like snowstorm spirals and eyes that see far too much. Children call him The Noble Watcher. And he does not correct them.     Carry the Watcher’s Legacy The Noble Watcher is more than an image — he is a symbol. Of guardianship. Of loyalty. Of silent strength that speaks louder than war drums. Now, his presence can live on in your world — in quiet corners and sacred spaces alike. Bring home the myth. Not as a memory — but as a companion: Tapestry – Let the legend stand watch in your space, woven in shadow and frost, silent but ever-seeing. Tote Bag – Take a guardian with you — strong, stoic, and surprisingly good at carrying books or battle snacks. Coffee Mug – Because even legends start their watch with warmth. Let your morning brew be watched over with dignity. Throw Pillow – Rest beside strength. Soft on the outside, enduring at heart — like any true guardian. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Honor the legend one stitch at a time. A slow ritual, worthy of the one who never blinked. Let the Watcher stand with you.Not in noise. Not in fire. But in unwavering presence — exactly where he’s needed most.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Enchanted Husky

The Snow Between the Stars They say the world was once a whisper — cold and formless, drifting in silence until the winds learned to howl. It was then that Varro came, born not of mother or pack, but of breath and blizzard. His fur was spun from frost-laced clouds, his eyes twin shards of glacier sky. He walked without sound, but where he passed, the lost found direction, and the broken remembered how to mend. They call him many names. The Spirit Between Steps. The Winter Watcher. The Dog Who Waits. But only one knows his true name — and that is the girl who once wept in the forest, her hands full of ashes and her heart full of silence. She Had No Name The girl had wandered far. Too far. Past the edge of memory, past the trees that spoke in roots and riddles. She had nothing. No family. No purpose. No voice. Just the ache of something lost before it was ever found. Snow fell in spirals that day. Not cruel, but insistent. It kissed her lashes and curled around her like a question waiting to be answered. And then — she saw him. Varro stood atop a rise of crystal drift, his form barely touching the earth. He did not bark. He did not growl. He simply was — watching her with the kind of knowing that made your soul sit up straight. She took a step forward, then another. “I don’t know where I’m going,” she whispered. His eyes flickered. Not pity. Not command. Just... understanding. And then he turned and walked into the mist. She followed. The Path of Stillness They walked for what could have been minutes or a thousand quiet years. No words. No trail. Only the crunch of snow beneath her, and the soft disturbance of air as Varro moved ahead, weaving between trees and half-frozen dreams. Every so often, she would stumble, and he would pause. Not to help — but to wait. As if to say: This is your walk. I will not carry you. But I will not leave you. They came to a frozen lake that mirrored the sky. Stars blinked in its reflection, though none burned above them. She knelt at its edge and touched the ice — and it rippled with memory. Her father’s laugh. Her mother’s lullaby. The first time she fell. The first time she stood again. The way her name used to sound when said with love. She gasped and turned — but Varro was gone. In his place: pawprints. Leading across the lake. No cracks beneath them. Only stars. She rose and followed. The Voice Beneath the Cold At the lake’s center, she heard it — not with her ears, but with the part of her that had once been silent for too long. “Do you remember now?” She closed her eyes. “I remember being small. I remember being scared. I remember... forgetting who I was supposed to become.” The wind stirred. “Then you are ready.” She opened her eyes. Varro stood before her again, his face close. Eyes clear. Steady. Alive. She raised a hand, expecting to meet fur — but her fingers touched starlight instead. Cool. Luminous. A shimmer of soul given form. “Are you real?” she asked softly. He blinked. And in that moment, she knew — he was not meant to be questioned. He was meant to be followed. The Echo in the Ice The lake shimmered as she stepped forward, her reflection rippling beneath her feet — not just herself as she was, but every version she had ever been: the laughing child, the silent teen, the woman with questions no one had the courage to answer. Varro walked beside her now, not ahead. Their paths parallel, no longer teacher and student, but companions in clarity. At the center of the lake stood a tree — not made of bark, but ice and light, its branches curling like breath in frost. It pulsed with energy that felt older than the stars. Older than loss. “This is where I stop,” Varro said. Not aloud. But clearly. She turned to him. “What is it?” “The place where you choose.” “Choose what?” “To return. Or to rise.” The Heart of Stillness She placed her hand against the tree’s surface. It was cold — not painfully so, but clean, like the feeling of being seen without judgment. The tree responded, and the world shifted. She stood in her childhood room, but it was made of stars. She walked through the memory of her mother’s laughter, but it echoed like wind through pine. She stood face-to-face with herself — the real her, the hidden her, the one who had always doubted her own worth — and for the first time, she smiled at that version of herself. Not with pity. With recognition. She placed her hands on her own shoulders, looked herself in the eyes, and whispered: “We are enough. And we are not done.” The image folded into light. Varro’s Gift When she turned from the tree, Varro was waiting. He had grown — not in size, but in presence. A great creature of swirling winds and celestial wisdom. His fur moved like ocean tides. His eyes glowed with galaxies. “I don’t want to say goodbye,” she said. “You never will. I live in the steps between your courage and your kindness. I walk in the moments when you trust yourself again.” “Then what now?” He stepped forward, pressed his forehead to hers. “Now, you go back. And you guide others. As I guided you.” He stepped away, and as he did, his body dissolved into light — not death, but expansion. Wind curled around her like an embrace. The stars spun. The ice tree glowed — then shattered into a thousand sparks, each one a whisper of awakening. She woke beneath a pine, heart pounding, breath steady. Snow clung to her lashes. The sun broke through the trees. And beside her in the snow — a single pawprint. Warm. Fresh. Waiting. She stood. And followed.     Carry the Spirit. Remember the Path. “The Enchanted Husky” is more than a tale — it’s a guidepost, a companion, and a reminder that some journeys begin in stillness, and some guardians walk with us even when unseen. Now, you can bring Varro’s quiet strength and luminous beauty into your space through a collection designed for those who feel the call of the wild and the whisper of the stars: Wood Print – Let the story breathe on natural grain, where every line carries the texture of ancient wisdom and quiet strength. Throw Pillow – Rest with a guardian by your side. Subtle. Majestic. Ever-watchful. Tote Bag – Carry calm, carry clarity, carry a myth wrapped in fur and frost wherever you go. Sticker – A small reminder on your journal, water bottle, or window — that guidance often comes on quiet paws. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch a spirit into form. Meditative, meaningful, and timeless. Let Varro walk with you.Because some stories don’t end — they echo, softly, wherever the snow falls and the soul listens.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Faerie and Her Dragonette

Wings, Whispers, and Way Too Much Sparkle “If you set one more fern on fire, I swear by the Moonroot Blossoms I will ground you until the next equinox.” “I didn't mean to, Poppy!” the dragonette squeaked, smoke curling from his nostrils. “It looked flammable. It was practically asking for it.” Poppy Leafwhistle, faerie of the Deepwood Glade and part-time chaos manager, pinched the bridge of her nose — a move she’d adopted from mortals because rubbing your temples is apparently not enough when you're bonded to a fire-prone winged gremlin with scale polish and an attitude. She’d rescued the dragonette — now called Fizzletuft — from a rogue spell circle in the north fen. Why? Because he had eyes like sunrise, a whimper like a teacup, and the emotional stability of a wet squirrel. Obviously. “Fizz,” she sighed, “we talked about the sparkle restraint protocols. You can’t go around flaring your tail every time a leaf rustles. This isn’t drama class. This is the forest.” Fizzletuft huffed, his wings fluttering with a rainbow shimmer that could blind a bard. “Well maybe the forest shouldn’t be so flammable. That’s not my fault.” The Trouble with Moonberries They were on a mission. A *simple* one, Poppy had thought. Find the Moonberry Grove. Harvest two berries. Don’t let Fizz eat them, explode them, or name them “Sir Wiggleberry” and try to teach them interpretive dance. So far, they had located zero berries, three suspiciously enchanted mushrooms (one of which proposed to Poppy), and a vine that had tried to spank Fizzletuft into next Tuesday. “I hate this place,” Fizz whined, perching dramatically on a mossy rock like a sad opera singer with abandonment issues. “You hate everything that isn’t about you,” Poppy replied, ducking under a willow branch. “You hated breakfast because the jam wasn’t ‘emotionally tart’ enough.” “I have a delicate palate!” “You ate a rock yesterday!” “It looked seasoned!” Poppy paused, exhaled, and counted to ten in three different elemental languages. The Mist Came Suddenly Just as the sun speared through the canopy in a shaft of perfect golden light, the forest changed. The air thickened. The birds stopped chirping. Even the leaves held their breath. “Fizz…” Poppy whispered, her voice dipping into seriousness — a rare tone in their partnership. “Yup. I feel it. Very mysterious. Definitely spooky. Possibly cursed. A hundred percent into it.” From the mist rose a shape — tall, robed, shimmering with the same light Poppy’s wings cast. It wasn’t malevolent. Just… ancient. Familiar, somehow. And oddly floral. “You seek the Grove,” it said, voice like wind through old chimes. “Yes,” Poppy replied, stepping forward. “We need the berries. For the ritual.” “Then you must prove your bond.” Fizzletuft perked up. “Oooh! Like a trust fall? Or interpretive dance? I have wings, I can pirouette!” The figure paused. “...No. You must enter the Trial of Two.” Poppy groaned. “Please tell me it’s not the one with the mushroom maze and the accidental emotional telepathy.” Fizz squealed. “We’re gonna get in each other’s heads? FINALLY. I’ve always wondered what it’s like inside your brain. Is it full of sarcasm and leaf facts?” She turned to him slowly. “Fizz. You have five seconds to run before I turn your tail into a windchime.” He didn’t run. He launched straight upward, cackling, sparkles trailing behind him like a magical sneeze. The Trial of Two (And the Sparkle Apocalypse) The moment they crossed the veil into the Trial Grove, the world blinked. One second, Poppy was side-eyeing Fizzletuft’s attempt to rebrand himself as “Lord Wingpop the Dazzling,” and the next — She was floating. Or... falling? Hard to tell. There was mist, and colors, and an unsettling number of tiny whispering voices saying things like “oof, this one’s emotionally constipated” and “he hides his trauma under glitter.” When her feet hit the ground again — mossy, fragrant, humming slightly — she was alone. “Fizz?” No answer. “This isn’t funny!” Still nothing, until— “I CAN HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS!” Fizzletuft’s voice echoed in her skull like an overexcited squirrel with a megaphone. “This is amazing! You think in leaf metaphors! Also, you’re low-key afraid of centipedes! WE HAVE TO UNPACK THAT!” “Fizz. Focus. Trial. Sacred place. Prove our bond. Stop narrating my anxieties.” “Okay okay okay. But wait — wait. Is that... is that a DRAGON SIZED VERSION OF ME?!” The Mirrorbeast Poppy turned, heart thudding. Standing before her — impossibly elegant, coiled in winged menace and sass — was a full-grown dragonette. Rainbow-scaled. Eyes glowing. And smirking in the exact same smug way Fizzletuft did when he was about to destroy a teacup on purpose. The Mirrorbeast. “To pass,” it boomed, “you must face your fears. Each other’s. Together.” Poppy didn’t like the way it said “together.” “Oh boy,” Fizz whispered in her brain. “I just remembered something. From before we met.” “What is it?” “I don’t... I don’t know if I hatched. I mean, I did. But not... normally. There was fire. A big explosion. Screaming. Possibly a sorcerer with a toupee. And I’ve always wondered if I was... created. Not born.” She paused. “Fizz.” “I know, I know. I act like I don’t care. But I do. What if I’m not real?” She stepped closer to the Mirrorbeast. “You’re as real as it gets, you over-glittered fire noodle.” The beast growled. “And your fear, faerie?” Poppy swallowed. “That I’m too much. Too sharp. That no one will ever choose to stay.” Silence fell. Then, out of nowhere, Fizzletuft crashed through a shrub, covered in vines, eyes wide. “I CHOSE YOU.” “Fizz—” “NOPE. I CHOSE YOU. You rescued me when I was all panic and fire and tail fluff. You scolded me like a mom and cheered for me like a friend. I may be made of magic and chaos, but I’d still choose you. Every day. Even if your cooking tastes like compost pudding.” The Mirrorbeast stared. And then... chuckled. It shimmered, cracked, and burst into stardust. The Trial was over. “You have passed,” said the grove, now gently glowing. “Bond: true. Chaos: accepted. Love: weird, but real.” The Grove’s Gift They found the Moonberries — soft-glowing, silver-veined, blooming from a tree that seemed to sigh when touched. Fizzletuft only licked one. Once. Regretted it immediately. Called it “spicy sadness with a minty afterburn.” On the way home, they were quiet. Not awkward quiet. The good kind. The “we’ve seen each other’s soul clutter and still want to hang out” kind. Back in the glade, Poppy lit a lantern and leaned back against the mossy stump they both called home base. Fizzletuft curled around her shoulders like a warm, glittering scarf. “I still think we should’ve performed that interpretive dance.” “We did, Fizz.” She smiled, eyes twinkling. “We just used feelings instead of jazz hands.” He let out a contented puff of smoke. “Gross.” “I know.”     Adopt the Sass. Sparkle Your Space. If you’ve fallen for the leafy sass of Poppy and the firecracker mischief of Fizzletuft, you can now bring their story home (without setting anything on fire... probably). “The Faerie and Her Dragonette” is now available in a collection of magical merchandise that’s as vivid, cheeky, and sparkly as the duo themselves: Tapestry – Hang this vibrant fae-and-flame duo in your space and let the adventure begin with every glance. Puzzle – Piece together the magic, the mystery, and maybe some glitter tantrums. It's the perfect dragon-approved challenge. Greeting Card – Send a message as bold and sparkly as your favorite faerie fire duo. For magical birthdays, sassy thank-yous, or just saying “hey, you're fabulous.” Sticker – Slap a bit of Poppy & Fizz on your journal, laptop, or cauldron. Mischief included. Glitter optional (but encouraged). Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch your own enchanted moment. Perfect for crafters, faerie fans, and anyone needing an excuse to hoard sparkly thread. Claim your piece of Deepwood Glade — because some stories deserve to live on your wall, your shelf, and definitely your heart. 🧚‍♀️🐉

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Macabre Masquerade

The Dance Beneath Dying Stars The fog curled like fingers across the old courtyard stones, whispering secrets only the dead remembered. Candlelight, trembling in iron sconces, painted everything in flickering gold and mourning gray. The night air was thick with forgotten perfumes — rose ash, bitter myrrh, a trace of blood-orange wine aged in grief. They arrived together, always together, the way dusk arrives with the moon. Lucien Virell in midnight finery, top hat adorned with skulls that smiled wider than he did. And Celestine D’Roux, cloaked in smoke and corset-laced shadows, her heart encased in a red gem so vivid it pulsed with memory. Both masked in bone, painted in echoes. Lovers, perhaps. Cursed, certainly. Guests of honor at a gathering no living soul had ever truly left. The Unveiling The Masquerade was held but once a century — a celebration of mourning, of memory, of the beautiful rot of what had been. Every guest wore their regrets like jewelry. Every glance was a wound opened willingly. The music was sorrow carved into sound, led by violins that remembered heartbreaks never spoken aloud. Celestine descended the marbled stair with the grace of a fallen prayer. Her striped stockings wrapped her legs like shackles fashioned by angels. Her curls bloomed with feathers and bone, her smile stitched with longing she had never learned to bury. Lucien met her with a hand offered like a vow. “One night,” he said, voice thick as velvet and cold as confession. “We have one night before the dream ends again.” She pressed her fingers to his, eyes dark wells no wish dared fall into. “Then let us make the dream bleed beauty.” The Dance They moved like death pretending to be desire. Step by step, breathless and boundless, swirling through clouds of ash petals and ghostlight. Around them, the masquerade pulsed with forgotten lovers, mourning queens, hollow kings, and dancers who once were poets, now turned poetry themselves. The music shifted — slow, reverent, like a soul leaving the skin. The floor seemed to tilt, drawing them inward, deeper, toward the heart of something buried long ago: a promise made in blood beneath a red eclipse, when Lucien had still drawn breath and Celestine had still wept. “Do you remember?” he asked, voice raw at the edges. “I never stopped.” His fingers trembled at her waist. Not with fear — but with the weight of what could never be undone. Their love was a wound that refused to scar, a story told through lips long silent. As they spun, the others parted. Not out of awe — but reverence. Grief recognized grief, and these two were its truest priests. Midnight’s Toll The bells tolled from the cathedral’s skeleton tower. Midnight — the moment the veil thinned and the cost was counted. Lucien’s form began to fade, threads of shadow unwinding from his coat. Celestine reached for him, but her hand passed through the echo of his own. “No,” she breathed. “Not again.” “Every century, my love. Until the promise breaks or the world does.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, a phantom blessing. “I will return to you,” he whispered. “In fog, in flame, in the space between heartbeats. I am yours where no time can find us.” And with that, he was gone. Celestine stood alone beneath the blood-red balloons that never drifted, never burst. Only hovered — waiting. Around her, the Masquerade danced on. But her world had tilted. Again. And she was left with only memory and the echo of a man she once called forever. She smiled. And it cracked like porcelain. The Heart That Refused to Die The ballroom emptied slowly, as if time itself was reluctant to sweep away what remained. Guests retreated in silken silence, their masks cracking at the edges, their elegance wilting beneath the weight of farewell. All except one. Celestine lingered at the center of the dancefloor, haloed in cinders and feathers. Her red-heart pendant glowed faintly, a pulse echoing from within — his heartbeat. No longer flesh, but still hers. She walked alone now, among shadows that whispered her name like a hymn. Each footstep echoed memories. Here, he had kissed her. There, they had vowed to never leave. Everywhere she turned, he was absent and somehow still near. She did not cry. Not because she could not. But because even sorrow had grown quiet inside her. What remained now was something deeper. Something colder. Something eternal. The Mirror of Remembering In a forgotten chamber behind the crimson-curtained alcove, Celestine approached the Mirror of Remembering — a relic wrought from obsidian and regret. It was said to show not what was, but what could have been. Most who looked into it left screaming or laughing. Or simply vanished. Celestine stared into it, fearless. And saw him. Lucien. Whole. Laughing. A garden bloomed around him, with sunlight draped across his face and a ring upon his hand. The ring she once wore, before the fire. Before the curse. Before the deal struck at the edge of the veil. He was alive in that reflection — not as he was, but as he might have been. And beside him stood her — but younger, less adorned in sorrow, more filled with breath than ghosts. She lifted her hand to touch the glass. It rippled. The image faltered. “Do not chase what was never meant to be,” the mirror whispered, its voice her own. But her heart — that red gem set in a cage of silver and loss — beat louder than warning. Louder than reason. And she turned away. The Pact Revisited Celestine returned to the courtyard, now swallowed in fog and half-light. There, on the obsidian dais where the Masquerade had begun, stood the veiled one — the Architect of the Masquerade, neither alive nor dead, but something else entirely. A curator of stories trapped in time, of vows unfulfilled. “You seek to rewrite fate,” the Architect intoned, voice like rust and rain. “No,” she said. “I seek to finish it.” “He is beyond the veil. You know the cost.” “Yes. My body. My breath. My tomorrow. All of it.” The Architect extended a skeletal hand. In its palm, a thorned key. “Then pass through the veil. Reclaim him. But know this — you cannot return.” Celestine took the key. Her hands did not tremble. Her resolve was older than fear. The Door Beneath the Stars Behind the oldest rose arch in the garden — one that had not bloomed since Lucien’s last breath — she found the door. Etched in it were their names, carved with the same blade that once spilled their shared blood in vow. The key turned with a sigh. The door opened on silence. She stepped through — and the world changed. There was no fire. No scream. Just... warmth. A warmth she hadn’t known since before memory. Her hands became flesh again, her tears real. And before her stood Lucien — whole, human, reaching for her with eyes full of disbelief and aching joy. “You...” he whispered. “Always,” she replied. They fell into each other, the past crumbling behind them like dried rose petals. There were no masks. No masquerade. Only a beginning — at last, and far too late — in the only place left untouched by time: The space between death and forever.     Curate the Darkness. Keep the Memory. For those drawn to passion that defies time and elegance painted in bone and velvet, “The Macabre Masquerade” lives on beyond the veil — now captured in exquisitely crafted products for your home, your heart, and your hidden corners. Let Lucien and Celestine’s story breathe through your space with our hauntingly beautiful collection: Tapestry – Drape your walls in shadow and elegance with this woven echo of gothic romance. Canvas Print – A gallery-worthy portrait of love undying, sealed in rich texture and eternal grayscale. Throw Pillow – Rest your thoughts upon feathers, lace, and longing. Duvet Cover – Wrap yourself in whispered secrets and sleep beneath the veil of love and ash. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch the sorrow and beauty, one thread at a time, and bring their tale to life in your own hands. Step beyond the masquerade and into memory.Because some love stories are too haunting to forget.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Painter's Pup

The Trouble With Turpentine and Tails There once lived a pup with fur so swirled, so vibrantly chaotic, that art professors across the land either wept with envy or spontaneously retired. His name? Bristle. Named not after a brush, but after what most people did when he tried to “help” them paint. Bristle was no ordinary dog. He didn’t bark. He *splattered*. His tail was a living brushstroke, his paws tracked cerulean, ochre, and “is-that-glitter?” across every surface. If he sneezed, someone got a new mural. His human, Gilda van Splick, was a renowned expressionist painter with a penchant for dramatic hats and even more dramatic tantrums. “Bristle, darling,” she’d often sigh, mid-explosion, “you can’t just PEE in the palette again. That’s a *limited edition* umber.” Bristle would cock his head, blink twice, and promptly chase a phantom dot only he could see. It was rumored the dot was existential. The Incident With the Art Critic It was a sunny Tuesday when the infamous art critic Clive Rottensnob arrived at Gilda’s studio. He wore a monocle, carried a snarky aura, and smelled faintly of ungrateful cheese. “I’m here,” he announced, “to review your latest masterpiece. It had better not involve that dog again.” Gilda’s eyes twitched. “Of course not, Clive. He’s simply... around. Not *involved*.” At that exact moment, Bristle launched from behind a canvas, flying in an arc of neon green and metallic gold, leaving a streak of paint across Clive’s cream linen trousers. The dog landed with a proud yip and a splat. The splat was considered avant-garde. “Good heavens!” Clive bellowed. “I am not a canvas!” “Clearly not,” Gilda said. “You lack depth.” Clive left in a huff, then a minute later returned to retrieve his monocle. Bristle had chewed it into a kaleidoscope and renamed it “Optic Confusion.” It sold two days later for $4,000 and a meatball sub. The Rise of a Furry Muse Word spread quickly. Suddenly, everyone wanted a Bristle Original. His pawprint had become the toast of the art world — literal toast, in one gallery's case. He had no idea what he was doing, and that made it better. “Art is feeling,” Gilda mused one night, sipping wine and watching Bristle roll through a vat of abstract glitter goo. “Art,” Bristle replied, licking a brush that had definitely seen too much turpentine, “tastes weird.” He sneezed. The splatter hit a blank wall. It sold the next morning for $12,000 and a year’s supply of chew toys. And thus, the legend of the Painter’s Pup began. The Gallery Gala, the Glitterpocalypse, and the Brush With Greatness Six months later, Bristle was a phenomenon. No longer just a mischievous mutt with a Jackson Paw-llock complex, he had become a celebrated enigma in the art world. People whispered his name in hushed tones at espresso bars. Critics battled over the meaning of his works, particularly the infamous "Untitled #37", which was just a series of red pawprints across a yoga mat and one disturbingly accurate depiction of a sausage. Gilda, once a misunderstood genius, now found herself outshone by her shaggy sidekick. Invitations rolled in faster than Bristle could destroy them. (He had an unfortunate habit of mistaking envelopes for hostile squirrels.) But none of that compared to the invitation that arrived by drone one cloudy Tuesday: THE GRAND GALA OF GLORIOUS GALLERIESThe prestigious House of Aesthetics invites you to unveil your greatest work at the Gala of the Century.Dress code: Excessively dramatic. Glitter optional but encouraged. Bristle barked once and promptly painted the RSVP in raspberry jam on the carpet. They were going. Gala Night: The Brush, the Bark, the Buffet The venue was a literal castle, converted from a 14th-century fortress into a modern space with ambient lighting, brooding violinists, and at least three people named “Sebastian” wearing scarves that cost more than rent. Gilda wore a gown inspired by one of Bristle’s earlier works — a swirling pattern of orange, blue, and “oops-that-was-coffee.” Bristle? He wore a bowtie made of paintbrush bristles and glitter shoes he made himself by rolling through a craft bin. He looked like a Lisa Frank fever dream — and he loved it. “Are you nervous?” Gilda asked as they entered the main hall, which was filled with gallerists, influencers, and that one guy who always insists NFTs are still a thing. Bristle sniffed the air. “I smell shrimp cocktail and mild existential panic. Classic opening night energy.” At the center of the gala, on a rotating dais beneath a chandelier shaped like a question mark, was the showstopper: Bristle’s newest masterpiece. He’d titled it “I Chased the Moon and Found My Tail”. The piece defied explanation. Swirls, splatters, bite marks. A haunting dab of mustard in the corner that art theorists would debate for years. One critic cried openly. Another proposed marriage to the canvas. Then... disaster struck. The Glitterpocalypse Everything was going well until Bristle, overcome with creative inspiration (or possibly indigestion), attempted a live performance piece. He leapt onto the buffet table. He rolled through a tray of canapés. He launched himself at the rotating dais, did a backflip midair (where did he learn that?!), and knocked over three vats of promotional glitter — one of which was pressurized. The explosion was immediate. And glorious. Glitter coated every person, every artwork, every canapé. The chandelier collapsed under the weight of aesthetic irony. One influencer livestreamed the entire thing and gained 42,000 new followers in 30 minutes. In the center of it all, Bristle stood triumphant, tail wagging in a shimmering cyclone of fabulous ruin. His bowtie was on fire. Nobody cared. It was art. The Aftermath and Accidental Enlightenment The House of Aesthetics tried to be outraged. They issued a formal complaint written entirely in haiku. But it was too late — Bristle had become a legend. His work — the smeared remains of food, fabric, and glitter-borne chaos — was rebranded as “Post-Intentional Aesthetic Destruction”. It sold to a private collector in Milan for the price of a small yacht, a lifetime supply of chew toys, and a full-time emotional support butler named Wayne. Gilda and Bristle returned to their studio. They painted less and played more. Bristle, tired of fame, focused on his true calling: making very specific messes in very expensive places. “Do you ever wonder what it all means?” Gilda asked one evening, watching Bristle nap on a palette shaped like a cloud. Bristle yawned, rolled onto his back, and whispered, “Art is just the universe licking its own tail and calling it a masterpiece.” She blinked. “That... was actually profound.” He farted. “And that was balance.” Epilogue: Where Are They Now? Bristle currently teaches an abstract splatter class for toddlers and surrealist pigeons. Gilda is launching a line of clothing inspired by dog prints and chaos. Clive Rottensnob became a llama therapist and hasn’t spoken about “Optic Confusion” since. Optic Confusion was recently acquired by a museum, where it now haunts the gift shop. And as for art? It’s still messy. Still loud. Still weird. Just like Bristle.     Decorate Like a Dog Just Discovered Color Inspired by the legendary chaos of Bristle the Brush-Tailed Wonder, we've turned his vibrant, swirly madness into home décor that makes a statement. (That statement is somewhere between “I love dogs” and “I let my inner goblin paint the guest room.”) The Painter’s Pup is now available in glorious, cuddle-approved form: Tapestry – Hang a hurricane of color and fluff on your wall like the artistic rebel you are. Throw Pillow – Snuggle into swirls that may or may not inspire a nap and a sudden craving for peanut butter. Fleece Blanket – Stay warm in a flurry of fur, color, and questionable life choices (just like Bristle). Tote Bag – Carry your snacks, sketchpads, or emergency glitter with Bristle’s chaotic charm by your side. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch this adorable masterpiece one loop at a time while Bristle barks encouragement from beyond the frame. Shop the Pup Collection and let your living space scream "I believe in art, color, and small dogs with big dreams." 🎨🐾

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Whispering Wings in the Winter Wilds

The Silence That Screamed Back The snow didn’t crunch beneath her feet — it gasped. With every step, Lira walked like a secret looking for somewhere safe to hide. Swathed in crimson velvet stitched with symbols no mortal tailor could explain (though her dry cleaner would later try, bless his soul), she moved like a question mark curled into a lullaby. Her companion, however, had never been one for subtlety. “You know,” Korrik said, swiveling his feathery head in that unnerving 270-degree owl way, “this whole ‘mysterious enchantress in the woods’ look is gorgeous, yes, but I’m freezing my tail feathers off.” “You don’t have a tail,” Lira replied without looking. “Metaphorical tail feathers. Emotional tail feathers. I’m vulnerable, Lira.” Korrik, the Great Spirit Owl of the Frosthorn Peaks, guardian of the Glacial Gate, and recently self-declared podcast host, had a way of blending gravitas and sarcasm like hot tea with just a splash of gin. Once, he’d disarmed an entire battalion of ice trolls with nothing but a pun and a glare. But today, he was simply cranky — and suspiciously damp. “That’s because you fell in a creek,” Lira murmured, stroking his soaked wing. “I was diving to save you!” “From a squirrel.” “A potentially rabid squirrel with a knife!” “It had a pinecone.” “A sharpened pinecone. Tactical weapon. Definitely trained.” The Watchers Return The forest, that endless blur of white and breath and needle-thin trees, shifted around them like it was listening. Because it was. Everything in the Winter Wilds watched, even the silence. Especially the silence. Lira slowed near a clearing marked by stone towers, twisted and worn like the spines of sleeping giants. She placed a gloved hand on one. It was warm. Not warm like sunlight, but warm like memory — familiar, haunting, a little clingy. “They’re stirring again,” she said. Korrik’s mood shifted in a blink. Humor dropped from his feathers like a cloak. “How long do we have?” “Until twilight. Maybe less.” “You could be less vague and more terrifying, you know.” “You could be less sarcastic and more helpful.” “But then I wouldn’t be me.” She smiled. “Exactly.” In the frozen space between heartbeat and echo, their bond shimmered. Ancient and sacred, born not of birthright but of choice — a witch and her watcher, once enemies, now fused by purpose. What that purpose was, exactly, remained frustratingly cryptic. But that’s how the Fates liked it. The Fates were jerks. A Name Written in Wind “You’re sure she’s here?” The voice came from behind the ridge. Male. Low. Invasive. Lira’s breath hitched. Korrik’s feathers stood on end. “Trouble incoming. You want the high road or the high ground?” “I’ll take the high ground. You take the drama.” He flared his wings like a diva on opening night. “I was born for it.” Three shadowed figures crested the rise. Cloaks like dusk. Eyes like spite. The lead one bore a staff crowned with a pulsating green stone — pulsing not with power, but hunger. “Lira of the Crimson Vale,” the leader intoned. “Your presence offends the order of things.” Lira tilted her head. “My presence offends a lot of things. Bureaucracy, fashion critics, small talk... Take a number.” Korrik swooped low, fangs bared. “And your face offends me. Let’s fight!” The air crackled. Snow lifted. The Wilds inhaled. And somewhere, just behind reality, something very old... opened an eye. Talons, Truth, and That One Time with the Ice Nymph The snow exploded before the first spell even landed. Korrik shot upward in a cyclone of white, feathers catching the moonlight like slivers of steel. Lira spun, red cloak flaring behind her, arms rising into sigils carved into the air with raw intent. Magic, sharp and ancient, burst from her fingertips like forgotten lullabies turned feral. “You should really work on your subtlety!” Korrik called from above as he dive-bombed the staff-wielder. “Also your skincare routine!” The man swung his staff, unleashing a lash of green flame. It hit Korrik squarely in the chest—where it fizzled and died. Korrik blinked. “Well. That tickled.” He responded with a scream that cracked frost from branches a hundred yards away. The snow groaned, split open, and something *moved* beneath it. Lira stepped forward. The leader, flanked by two cowards dressed like budget necromancers, snarled. “You have no idea what you’re protecting.” “Wrong again,” she said, eyes glowing violet. “I know exactly what I’m protecting. That’s why you’re going to lose.” With a motion like pulling memories from her bones, Lira whispered a word no one had heard for centuries — not because it was forbidden, but because it was lonely. Everything froze. Literally. The attackers, mid-motion, snapped into statues of frost. The stone towers behind them shuddered, exhaled mist, and shifted their alignment, revealing a stairway down into the earth. The entrance to the Heart Below. The Pact Rekindled Korrik landed beside her, talons careful not to touch the threshold. “You sure about this?” “No. But we were never meant to be sure. Only brave.” “You know that’s the kind of inspirational nonsense that gets people eaten by haunted furniture, right?” “I trust you.” He blinked again. Slower this time. The kind of blink that said fine, I love you too, now let’s go die together but stylishly. They stepped onto the stairs. Stone hummed beneath their feet. The deeper they descended, the warmer it got — not in temperature, but in intensity. The way you feel walking into a room where your name’s just been spoken. Below, the Heart pulsed. A being of ice, spirit, and sorrow — guardian of the balance between realms. It had once chosen Korrik as its emissary. Now it chose Lira as its voice. “She comes,” the Heart whispered. “Blood-bound. Magic-marked. Fierce and flammable.” “I told you to stop using that shampoo,” Korrik muttered. “You smell like vengeance and lilacs.” Lira ignored him. “The Order is moving. They want to unbind the gates.” “Then we will seal them forever,” the Heart replied. “And if they follow?” “Then we give them what they seek: a world where only the strong, the true, and the gloriously sarcastic remain.” Korrik puffed out his chest. “Finally. My kind of world.” Aftermath, Tea, and Maybe a Book Deal Back in the forest, the statues began to melt — slowly, screaming. Their magic was broken, their leadership dismantled, and one of them had wet himself before freezing. Korrik promised never to let anyone forget it. Weeks passed. Snow fell gentler. The Wilds whispered less and laughed more. Lira and Korrik found a cabin on the edge of everything. A place where the world couldn’t quite reach, and reality had the good sense to stay confused. They drank too much tea, argued over firewood stacking technique, and fought off the occasional cursed marmot. Their bond deepened — not because of duty, but because they were better, stronger, and funnier together. Every so often, someone would knock on the cabin door with a warning or a prophecy. And every time, Korrik would answer with a smirk and a warning: “If you don’t come bearing cookies or compliments, turn back now. The witch bites. And I peck.” They never stayed long. And So... The Heart slept once more. The forest watched with different eyes now — gentler, knowing, a little amused. And the snow? The snow still gasped. But now, it was with laughter.     Bring the Magic Home If this tale of fierce friendship, ancient snow, and slightly sarcastic owls spoke to your soul (or at least chuckled at it), you can now bring “Whispering Wings in the Winter Wilds” into your own realm. Explore our enchanted collection of themed products below, perfect for gifts, gallery walls, or just reminding yourself that mystical forests and divine winged sass do, in fact, belong in your daily life: Greeting Card – For when your messages deserve a little winter magic. Tapestry – Drape your space in spellbound wonder. Acrylic Print – Let the colors of frost and fire shine in rich, vivid detail. Puzzle – Piece together the magic with your own two hands. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch your way into the Wilds with this elegant pattern version of the image. Shop the collection and let your walls whisper stories of snow, spirit, and sass.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Mystic Guardian: The Wolf of Thousand Dreams

In the quiet hours between dusk and nightfall, when shadows slither long and the wind hums forgotten names, the forest breathes with more than leaves. It was here, in the forbidden boundary of reality and myth, that the villagers spoke of a presence not bound by flesh, but carved in dream and fire. They called it Avenar, the Wolf of Thousand Dreams. Avenar was not born but woven. The old stories said his fur was stitched from strands of starfire, his eyes forged in the black furnace between worlds. To gaze upon him was to glimpse all your regrets at once, bathed in cosmic silence. Children dared one another to cross the Hollowroot River—the border of the waking world—to seek his trail. None returned unchanged. But tonight was different. She came from the city. Leather jacket cracked with wear, her boots stained in blood and secrets. Her name was Elira, and she carried a blade shaped like a crescent moon and scarred like its surface. A Guardian. Chosen not by gods, but by consequence. She bore no mark, no blessing. Only purpose. Whispers from the Elderglen trees wound around her mind like mist: He is awake. She did not flinch when the cold howl rose from the depths of the vale, ancient and aching. Instead, she followed it. Past the grove where time bent, past the rocks that bled silver when touched by shadow. She knew the wolf was waiting—not to attack, but to weigh her soul. They met beneath the forgotten temple, half-consumed by ivy and moonlight. The wolf’s breath stirred the stars. His fur rippled with fractal hues, a living mosaic of dreams lost and found. Eyes like burning orbs, deep and knowing, fixed on her. Elira knelt. "I seek not absolution,” she said, “only truth." The wind stilled. The trees bowed. And in a voice that was both thunder and whisper, the wolf answered: "Then walk the path of those who never sleep." The night cracked. A portal of memory and madness yawned open behind him, a swirl of lives unlived and moments unborn. Elira stepped forward, blade humming with light, into the fold of eternity itself. Behind her, the forest closed like a secret. Only the howl remained, echoing across realms. The Dream That Hunts There was no up, no down. Only the spiral. Elira fell and flew at once, her mind stitched across lifetimes—hers and others. Memories not her own clawed into her senses: a child lost in winter, a lover swallowed by fire, a war that never was. The dream-path was no mere vision; it was an ecosystem, breathing pain and hope in equal measure. The Wolf of Thousand Dreams led her through it—not as a guide, but as a test. “Every step forward,” he had told her in voice like rusted bells, “is a truth laid bare.” First, she met the hunter she might have become. In that strand of existence, Elira had slain Avenar before his howl ever touched the sky. She wore his pelt like a crown, ruled villages with fear. Her eyes were hollow, her smile cruel. When their gazes met across the thin veil, both versions of her snarled. She staggered back into the spiral. Next came the child. A girl with silver braids and mismatched eyes, cradling a bone flute made from the spine of her fallen mother. She looked at Elira, not with fear, but recognition. “You left me,” the girl whispered. “And the dream turned into a cage.” The world around her was barren—ashes, cracked earth, no stars above. The Guardian dropped to her knees. Her blade trembled. She couldn’t tell if the girl was future or past, consequence or warning. But Avenar was watching. The wolf emerged from the starlit fissures again, silent as breath. His form had shifted—no longer entirely wolf. Wings feathered with cosmic ink shimmered behind him, and his limbs bent in ways no earthly creature should. His voice, when it came, resonated through her bones. "You think your strength is in the sword. But your burden is older than steel." Elira rose slowly, her voice hoarse. “Then tell me what I carry.” Avenar circled her, eyes flaming suns. "You carry every soul that cried for justice. Every whisper ignored. Every nightmare you never faced. You are not here to defeat me, Elira. You are here to become me." The realization struck like lightning. This was not a trial to conquer the guardian wolf. It was a rite to inherit his legacy. Elira’s breath caught. Her blade shattered—voluntarily—splintering into motes of light that embedded themselves into her skin. Her bones felt heavier, older, made of the forest and fire and sorrow. She collapsed to her knees as the last echoes of her former self fell away. When she rose, her eyes mirrored his. And the spiral shifted. Now she stood at the mouth of the forgotten temple, half-consumed by ivy and moonlight. A young man approached, weapon at his back, his soul cracked by grief. He did not see a woman. He saw a beast of myth, fur laced with glowing fractals, eyes that glimmered with every dream he’d buried. He dropped to one knee. “I seek not glory, only peace.” Elira—the new Avenar—breathed deep and spoke her first words as the Dream Guardian: "Then walk the path of those who never sleep." The howl rose again, ancient and fierce, carrying across dimensions like a beacon. A new guardian stood watch. A new spiral had begun. And somewhere, far away, a child dreamed of a silver wolf, and smiled in her sleep.     Bring the Mystic Guardian into Your World If the legend of Avenar stirred your soul, now you can carry his story into your space. The Wolf of Thousand Dreams by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available in beautifully crafted formats for your home, heart, and hands. 🔥 Wood Print – Bold, natural, and timeless 🌌 Wall Tapestry – Let dreams flow across your walls 👜 Tote Bag – Carry a guardian wherever you go ☕ Coffee Mug – Start your mornings with myth 🧵 Cross-Stitch Pattern – Craft the dream with your own hands Let the Guardian live on—not just in tales, but in the texture of your life.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles

Thistlewhump the Gnome was not your average garden variety gnome. While others spent their days polishing mushrooms or napping behind tulip stems, Thistlewhump was a known floral deviant—a collector of rare petals, hoarder of pollen sparkle, and self-declared Minister of Mischief in the Bloomborough Hollow. Spring had just cracked open its golden shell, and Thistlewhump was already knee-deep in his seasonal rituals: rearranging the faerie ring alphabetically, filling birds’ nests with glitter, and most controversially, “borrowing” blooms from Mrs. Mumbletoes’ garden. It wasn’t theft if you left a button in return, right? On the morning in question, sunlight filtered through the forest like melted butter over toast, and Thistlewhump stood atop his wobble-legged stool, eyeing a fresh patch of purplebells with the intensity of a pastry chef inspecting an éclair. Basket in one hand, beard flowing like spun cloud, he plucked the flowers with theatrical flair. “This one shall be named Petunia von Sassypants,” he declared, twirling a violet petal between his fingers, “and this... Sir Bloomalot.” Behind him, a potted explosion of wildflowers shimmered as if snickering in delight, the fae whispers swirling in the warm air. Thistlewhump leaned in to sniff a bloom and immediately sneezed glitter. “That’s what I get for sweet-talking a sneezeweed,” he muttered, wiping fairy dust from his nose with a mushroom cap. But there was something different in the air that day—not just the usual scent of chlorophyll and mischief. No, something—or someone—was watching him. Hidden behind the larger-than-life bouquet was a shadow. A giggle. Possibly the rustle of a wing or the hiccup of a pixie with hayfever. Thistlewhump narrowed his eyes. “If that’s you again, Spriggle, I swear on my beard trimmer—” He paused. The flowers behind him trembled. His stool creaked. A petal fell. And from somewhere within the blossoms came a whisper: "Not Spriggle. Worse."     Thistlewhump froze mid-pose, one foot on his stool and the other dangling dramatically in midair like he was auditioning for a woodland ballet he never rehearsed. His nose twitched. His beard fluffed out in defensive formation. He turned slowly, theatrically, as gnomes are prone to do when drama calls. “Worse?” he echoed, eyes darting through the explosion of pinks and purples behind him. “Don’t tell me the Hydrangea Council finally traced my root-snipping incident…” But it wasn’t the Hydrangeas. Out of the petals burst a small figure—two inches tall, armed with a daffodil stem like a fencing foil and glitter streaming from her ears. “Daisy Flitterbottom!” Thistlewhump groaned. “You absolute menace!” “You stole my sparklebush cuttings,” Daisy accused, mid-air, wings vibrating like a caffeine-soaked hummingbird. “And you repotted them. In a clay mug. With no drainage.” Thistlewhump held up his basket as a peace offering, though it only contained three slightly crushed blossoms and a lint-covered gumdrop. “I was... experimenting,” he offered. “It was for science. Art. Interpretive horticulture.” Daisy wasn’t convinced. She dive-bombed his hat, knocking loose a cluster of sequins. “You called that art? It looked like a mossy sock with commitment issues!” What followed can only be described as an aggressively polite garden brawl. Thistlewhump flailed with a trowel he named “Daisy Negotiator,” while Daisy zigzagged like an angry firefly, knocking over his flowerpot in mid-hover. Petals flew. Glitter exploded. A passing bee did a U-turn in existential confusion. Eventually, both collapsed—Thistlewhump into a pile of overturned violets, and Daisy into a half-eaten macaroon someone had left on the railing. They panted, sweaty and pollen-covered, staring at the sky as though it owed them both an apology. “Truce?” Daisy mumbled through crumbs. “Only if you promise not to weaponize peonies again,” Thistlewhump wheezed. “I’m still finding petals in my underpants from last time.” She giggled. He grinned. The flowers slowly stopped trembling, and a single blue bloom stretched lazily toward the sun as if clapping with a petal. And as the sun dipped low and the bokeh haze of springtime glowed gold around them, Thistlewhump sat back on his stool (now slightly broken), sipped a warm chamomile from an acorn cup, and declared with a smile, “Ah, yes. Just another peaceful day in Bloomborough.” Somewhere nearby, a peony shuddered.     🌼 Garden Giggle Rhyme 🌼 In a garden where the posies pout,And bees wear boots to buzz about,Lives a gnome with a beard so wide,He sweeps the tulips when he slides. He steals your blooms, he swaps your socks,He talks to snails, he pranks the rocks.He brews his tea with petals bold,And sniffs the sun like it’s pure gold. So if you see your daisies grinning,Or catch your rosebush gently spinning—Don’t panic, dear, it’s just old Thump,The gnome who gardens with a bump. He’ll leave you laughs, some glitter, cheer,And possibly... a flowered rear.     🌷 Take the Mischief Home 🌷 If Thistlewhump and his flower-fueled chaos stole your heart (and maybe your socks), bring a bit of that blooming whimsy into your world! Whether you’re dressing up your space, lounging in comfort, or toting garden goodies, Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles is available in a variety of delightful products: 🧵 Whimsical Wall Tapestry – Hang the gnome magic on your wall and let the floral laughter bloom. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Perfect for garden naps and accidental glitter naps. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Sleep like a gnome, dream like a petal. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry blooms, mischief, and snacks wherever you wander. 🏖️ Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says spring mischief like lounging in circular style. Each item features the richly detailed artwork of Bill and Linda Tiepelman, bringing joy, charm, and just a pinch of gnome-fueled madness to your everyday life.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Quilted Egg Keeper

Of Eggs, Ego, and Exile Deep in the buttercream-scented meadows of Spring Hollow, far beyond the reach of grocery store egg dye kits and mass-produced chocolate bunnies, there lived a gnome named Gnorbert. Not just any gnome — *the* Gnorbert. The Quilted Egg Keeper. The legend, the myth, the mildly intoxicated seasonal icon whose job it was to guard the most sacred artifact of Easter: The First Egg. Capital F. Capital E. No pressure. His egg — more Fabergé than farm-fresh — was stitched together from enchanted scraps of long-forgotten springtime festivals. Panels of floral velvet, sunbeam-woven silk, and even one suspicious square that may have been repurposed from Mrs. Springlebottom’s old curtain set. It shimmered in the sunlight like a Lisa Frank fever dream, and it was Gnorbert’s pride and joy. That, and his hat. Oh gods, the hat. Spiraled like a unicorn’s horn and dyed in hues not even Crayola had the nerve to name, it loomed over him like a rainbow tornado. Gnorbert insisted it was necessary “to maintain the mystical equilibrium of seasonal joy,” but everyone in the Hollow knew it was just to hide the fact he hadn’t washed his hair since the Great Tulip Debacle of 2017. Every year, just as the last winter icicle packed its snowy bags and slinked back into the shadows, Gnorbert emerged from his quilted abode like a deranged jack-in-the-box, ready to coordinate the Great Egg Launch. It was part ceremony, part fashion show, and entirely unnecessary — but Spring Hollow wouldn’t have it any other way. This year, however, there was… tension. The kind of tension that smells like scorched marshmallow peeps and passive aggression. “You forgot to paint the anti-rot runes again, Gnorbert,” hissed Petalwick the Bunny Cleric, ears twitching with disapproval. “I did no such thing,” Gnorbert replied, elbow-deep in a mug of mead-laced carrot cider. “They’re invisible. That’s why they’re effective.” “They’re not invisible. You used invisible ink. That’s not how magic works, you glitter-soaked garden gnome.” Gnorbert blinked. “You say that like it’s an insult.” Petalwick sighed the sigh of someone who once saw a squirrel outwit a spell circle and still hasn’t recovered. “If this egg cracks before the ceremonial sunrise roll, we’ll have seven years of ugly crocus blooms and emotionally unavailable ducks.” “Better than last year’s pandemic of pastel moths and unseasoned deviled eggs,” Gnorbert muttered. “That was your spell, wasn’t it?” “That was your recipe book.” The two stared each other down while a trio of flower fairies took bets behind a daffodil. Gnorbert, still smug, patted his precious quilted egg, which gave a suspicious squish. His confidence faltered. Just a bit. “...That’s probably just the humidity,” he said. The egg squelched again. This, Gnorbert thought, might be a problem. Crack Me Up and Call It Spring The egg was sweating. Not metaphorically — no, Gnorbert had long since moved past poetic delusions and into the cold, damp reality of egg sweat. It glistened along the velvet petals like nervous dew on prom night. Gnorbert tried to casually rotate the egg, hoping maybe the wet patch was just—what? Condensation? Condemnation? “Petalwick,” he hissed through a forced smile, “did you... happen to cast a fertility amplification charm near the egg this year?” “Only in your general direction, as a curse,” Petalwick replied without missing a beat. “Why?” Gnorbert swallowed. “Because I think... it’s hatching.” A moment passed. The air thickened like expired marshmallow fluff. “It’s not that kind of egg,” Petalwick whispered, slowly backing away like a bunny who’d just realized the grass it was nibbling might actually be someone's vintage crochet centerpiece. But oh, it was exactly that kind of egg now. A faint chirping sound echoed from within — the kind of chirp that said, “Hi, I’m sentient, I’m confused, and I’m probably about to imprint on the first unstable gnome I see.” “YOU PUT A PHOENIX SPARK IN THE QUILT!” Petalwick shrieked. “I THOUGHT IT WAS A SPARKLY BUTTON!” Gnorbert bellowed back, arms flailing with glitter and denial. The egg began to glow. Vibrate. Hum like a sentient kazoo. And then, with the dramatic flair only an Easter phoenix chick could muster, it burst from the patchwork casing in a slow-motion explosion of lace, flower petals, and existential horror. The chick was... fabulous. Like Elton John had been reincarnated as a sentient marshmallow peep. Feathers of gold, eyes like disco balls, and an aura that screamed “I have arrived and I demand brunch.” “You magnificent disaster,” Petalwick muttered, shielding his eyes from the chick’s aggressive fabulousness. “I didn’t mean to incubate god,” Gnorbert whispered, which honestly, wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had said that week. The chick locked eyes with Gnorbert. A bond was formed. A terrible, sparkly bond of destiny and regret. “You’re my mommy now,” the chick chirped, voice dripping with mischief and diva energy. “Of course I am,” Gnorbert said, deadpan, already regretting everything that led him to this moment. “Because the universe has a sense of humor, and apparently, I’m the punchline.” And so, Spring Hollow got a new tradition: the Great Hatching. Every year, gnomes from across the land came to witness the rebirth of the sparkly phoenix chick, who had somehow unionized the bunnies, taken over the flower scheduling committee, and demanded that all egg hunts include at least one drag performance and a cheese platter. Gnorbert? He stayed close to the egg. Mostly because he had to. The chick, now known as Glitterflame the Rejuvenator, had separation anxiety and a mean left peck. But also, deep down, Gnorbert kind of liked being the accidental godparent of Easter’s weirdest mascot. He even washed his hair. Once. And on quiet nights, when the chick was asleep and the air smelled faintly of jellybeans and slightly scorched dignity, Gnorbert would sip his carrot cider and murmur to no one in particular, “It was a good egg. Until it wasn’t.” And the flowers nodded, and the hat twitched, and the patchwork shimmered in the moonlight, waiting — always — for next spring’s chaos to begin again. Fin.     Bring Gnorbert Home If you're now emotionally entangled with a fabulous Easter chick and a mildly unhinged gnome, you're not alone. Luckily, you don’t have to wait until next spring to relive the chaos. The Quilted Egg Keeper is available in all its patchwork glory across a magical collection of merch that even Glitterflame approves of (after much dramatic flapping). ✨ Transform your walls with the Tapestry 🖼️ Give your gallery wall a gnome-sized glow-up with the Framed Print 🛋️ Cuddle chaos with a Throw Pillow that’s 100% eggplosion-proof 💌 Send joy (and maybe a warning) with a Greeting Card 🥚 Stick some seasonal sass anywhere with the official Sticker Shop now and celebrate the season with a little extra sparkle, sass, and stitchwork. Gnorbert would want you to. Glitterflame demands it.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Velvet Torque: The Rebel Fairy

The Midnight Kickstart It was quarter past midnight when the ground trembled under the neon-stained clouds of Feyridge. Somewhere between the scent of lavender oil and motor grease, a rumble echoed through the twisting alleys of the Clockwork Quarter. And at its center—revving the engine of a skull-studded motorcycle that glowed like it had secrets—was her. Velvet Torque. No one called her by her birth name anymore, mostly because nobody remembered it. She’d long since traded faerie dust and lullabies for horsepower and brass knuckles wrapped in satin. Her wings? Six-foot blades of iridescent artistry, sharper than half the swords in the Royal Guard’s arsenal. Her bunny ears? Absolutely real. A remnant of an ill-advised love affair with a shape-shifting rabbit prince. Don’t ask. Seriously—don’t. Tonight was not about exes or regrets. Tonight was about payback. She zipped up her corset, tucked a tiny dagger into her garter, and took one last pull on a glitter-infused cigarillo that smelled like cotton candy and vengeance. “Let’s ride, bitches,” she whispered to her bike, which hummed in response like a good familiar should. Her motorcycle, SugarSkull, wasn’t just sentient—it was gossipy. And petty. But it was loyal, and that was enough. Velvet’s mission? Crash the Grand Mechanist’s annual Gala of Gears and expose his not-so-little secret: he’d been siphoning magic from the Fae Forest to fuel his precious automaton army. Not cool. Also? He’d banned cupcakes from the city under some obscure ‘combustible icing’ ordinance. That was the final straw. With a booted foot in glitter-laced leather, she kicked SugarSkull into gear. Fire belched from the twin exhaust pipes shaped like fanged cherubs. The bike roared like a thunder god with a hangover as Velvet launched herself down the cobbled roads, wings flaring behind her like stained-glass war banners. As she tore past the bakeries and brothels of Gear Alley, patrons raised their glasses. “Go get him, Velvet!” someone shouted. Another yelled, “You still owe me ten gold for that tequila-fueled llama bet!” She winked. “Put it on my tab, darling.” Halfway through the city, a mechanical pigeon dive-bombed her with a royal summons. She swatted it mid-air. “Nice try, Tinker King,” she growled. “But I RSVP’d with a chainsaw.” By the time she reached the copper drawbridge to the palace gates, the guards had already pissed themselves. One of them dropped his halberd and fled. The other started reciting his resignation letter in haiku. Velvet revved her bike, licked a candy skull lollipop, and pulled out a compact mirror that doubled as a fireball grenade launcher. “You boys might wanna duck.” The Gala was about to get interesting… The Gala Gets Gutted The palace courtyard was glittering with mechanical peacocks and clockwork flamingos, all preening under the golden glow of suspended aether-lanterns. Guests in gear-studded gowns and velvet waistcoats sipped shimmering cocktails and exchanged pleasantries like this was just another Tuesday in the realm of the obscenely rich. That is, until SugarSkull launched itself through the ballroom’s stained-glass skylight like an angry comet driven by sass and spite. Velvet landed in the middle of a chocolate fondue fountain and immediately lit a firework cigar, sending rainbow sparks into a chandelier made entirely of enchanted hummingbirds. “Ladies, lords, and what-the-fork-ever that is,” she announced, pointing to a guest with three monocles and a nose-ring the size of a wagon wheel, “your gala has officially been canceled.” The crowd gasped. One duchess fainted. A goblin threw his shrimp cocktail at her. Velvet caught it mid-air, licked it, and tossed it over her shoulder. “Tastes like colonialism,” she muttered. The Grand Mechanist, a tower of steam-powered smugness in a top hat rigged with its own weather system, stepped forward with an oily sneer. “Ah, the infamous Velvet Torque,” he drawled. “To what do we owe this delightfully disruptive honor? Another petty vendetta, perhaps?” “Petty?” she scoffed. “You banned cupcakes, Barnaby.” “That’s Lord Barnaby—” “Nope,” Velvet snapped, pulling a scroll from her cleavage and unfolding it with theatrical flair. “By royal decree of Queen Shyla the Slightly Unhinged, and by order of the Underground Order of Sugar-Infused Justice, I am hereby authorized to deliver a magical audit, a sugar strike, and a vibe check.” Gasps again. Somewhere, a monocle popped dramatically. Velvet smirked. Lord Barnaby’s automaton guards surged forward—towering brass monsters with drills for hands and no sense of humor. Velvet cracked her knuckles. “Darling,” she purred to her reflection in a butter-slicked serving tray, “try not to completely demolish the architecture.” What followed was chaos married to choreography. Velvet spun through the ballroom like a disco banshee. Her wings sliced through gears and gearsmen alike, shedding glitter like weaponized confetti. She rode SugarSkull straight up a support beam, launched into the air, and hurled a molotov teacup right into Barnaby’s smug little weather hat, setting off a mini thunderstorm above his powdered wig. “That’s for the forest,” she hissed. “And that’s for banning sprinkles, you greasy goblin.” Within minutes, the gala had become a war zone of melted cheese wheels, collapsing candelabras, and confused nobles trying to crawl out of their own hoop skirts. Velvet landed beside a demolished hors d'oeuvres table, grabbed a stuffed mushroom, and stuffed it in her mouth while launching a smoke bomb shaped like a corsage. She strolled casually through the haze, collecting enchanted gears and whispering sweet threats to trembling guests. “Tell your friends. The Fey don’t forget. And we don’t forgive unsalted scones.” By the time Velvet reached the throne room, Lord Barnaby was hiding behind a statue of his mother. “You’ll never make it out!” he barked. “I’ll activate the failsafe! I’ll—” She held up a crystal cupcake. “This? This is the failsafe.” With a bite, the enchantment detonated—disabling every piece of machinery in the palace, turning the Mechanist’s army into a pile of sad scrap metal. Velvet sauntered up to him, her heels clicking like a countdown. “Now, say it,” she demanded. He gulped. “...Cupcakes are...magic.” “Damn right,” she grinned. “Now get out of my kingdom, Barnaby. And take your kale cookies with you.” With the palace now a glorious mess of frosting and revolution, Velvet mounted SugarSkull once more. The courtyard had filled with rebels, bakers, and winged misfits ready to take back their sugar-soaked city. Someone handed her a martini. Someone else handed her a puppy. She accepted both. “Where to next, boss?” SugarSkull asked, its dashboard lighting up like a rave. “Wherever the patriarchy still thinks pink can’t punch,” Velvet purred, revving the engine. “Let’s paint the world with glitter and gasoline.” With a trail of magic fire and the scent of spiced cupcakes behind her, Velvet Torque rode into legend, laughter echoing across the clouds. She was wild. She was whimsical. She was the moment. And damn, did she look good doing it.     💫 Bring Velvet Torque Home If this wild ride through steampunk mischief, magical rebellion, and unapologetic glam spoke to your inner troublemaker, we’ve got just the thing. “Velvet Torque: The Rebel Fairy” is available now as a selection of stunning, high-quality art products that bring her sass and sparkle right into your space: 🖼️ Wood Print – The perfect statement piece for any rebel's lair. 🧵 Tapestry – Bring bold, whimsical energy to your walls. 🛋️ Throw Pillow – Add a pop of power (and pink) to your space. 🧩 Puzzle – Piece together every bit of magic and mischief. 💌 Greeting Card – Send rebellious fairy vibes with flair. Power. Glitter. Wings. Now available in your living room.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Warchanter of the Forgotten Plains

The Chanter's Curse The Forgotten Plains hadn’t always been called that. Once, long ago, they were the Heartlands—sacred hunting grounds where the sky bled orange over rivers thick with fish, and stories walked like beasts across the grass. Now? Nothing but wind and dust. Even the ghosts had better places to be. And yet, something walked there still. Something unholy and unfinished. A skeleton made of jade-green bone, draped in the lion-flesh of an ancient god. Its skull grinned wide, forever mid-scream, eyes hollow and alight with the dying embers of a thousand cursed campfires. He was called the Warchanter, though no one living remembered his real name. The only ones who did were dead—or worse—and they didn’t speak his name. They choked on it. Once, he had been Heka’tul, the Singer of the Ninth Fire. Born of women who chewed obsidian for strength and men who carved lullabies into bone flutes. A prodigy, raised in blood and rhythm, he sang not just songs but storms. He made war drums tremble with shame. He could call forth wolves, command men to die smiling, and bend sky to his throat. His voice wasn’t a gift. It was a weapon. And like every weapon left too long in hungry hands, it got used wrong. It started with the Lion Trial—an ancient rite reserved for the tribe’s chosen god-flesh. Heka’tul wasn’t chosen. He took it anyway. He smeared himself in crushed mushrooms and animal fear, marched naked under the eclipse, and chanted a song so raw it peeled skin from nearby trees. And when the lion came—massive, golden, divine—he didn’t worship it. He ripped its throat out with his teeth, howled through the blood spray, and crowned himself king with its skull. The elders begged the spirits for vengeance. The spirits laughed. “He wants power?” they said. “Then he’ll have it. Forever.” So they cursed him—not with death, but with unending purpose. The Warchanter wouldn’t rot. Wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t forget. He would walk, every night, through the wasteland he created, carrying the weight of every soul he silenced with song. His voice was stolen, replaced by the hum of cursed wind. His throat glows with emerald fire, an open wound in the fabric of time. His ribs pulse like drums beaten by unseen hands. And that lion’s head? It’s not a helmet. It’s alive, twitching, snarling, gnashing invisible prey. Sometimes it weeps. Sometimes it laughs. He wears a headdress made of feathers dipped in warrior blood, each one plucked from a soul he personally unmade. They don’t blow in the breeze. They twitch with breathless agony, trapped between silence and scream. The air around him stinks of old ash, blood dust, and the kind of fear that makes animals miscarry. Legends say he appears to those who break pacts—oathbreakers, cowards, false prophets. One minute you're just a fool, lying to a lover or spitting on tradition. Next? You hear the sound. Not a chant. Not a growl. Something in between. A throatless rhythm. A dirge hummed by the dirt. It starts in your spine and ends in your soul, and then… he’s there. Standing. Watching. Chanting without sound. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. Your bones hear him just fine. And then, oh yes, then—he sings. And your body unlearns how to stay whole. He leaves behind nothing but broken drums, shattered teeth, and footprints shaped like question marks. The lucky ones are found hollowed out, green-veined, eyes wide. The unlucky? They join him. Another bone. Another beat in the endless fucking song. Out here, on the plains that forgot themselves, time and memory don’t hold. But the Warchanter? He holds just fine. He holds everything.     The Bone Chant Never Ends By the time you hear the drumbeat, it's already too late. It doesn’t come from behind you or from some distant ridge. It comes from inside you—from your marrow. You don’t know whether it’s panic or prophecy, but your knees buckle, your guts twist, and you shit yourself without shame. The Forgotten Plains do that. The Warchanter does that. Three warbands had come through this stretch over the last decade—mercs, scavengers, faith-fueled zealots. None of them made it past the dead river. Bones were found gnawed to dust. Their weapons melted into the soil like sugar. Not rusted. Melted. As if the earth itself wanted no memory of their hubris. But the real horror wasn’t what was left. It was what wasn’t. See, when the Warchanter takes you, you don’t just die. You’re recycled. He pulls the voice from your soul like peeling gum from the bottom of a shoe—slow, sticky, and humiliating. You scream, but it comes out as birdsong, or flute notes, or worse—one guy croaked out a child’s lullaby until his lungs turned to smoke. And then? Then the Warchanter opens his chest cavity like a fucking cabinet, and he stores that sound inside him. Your fear becomes a verse. Your pain becomes percussion. You are the chant now. There’s a place, halfway to the center of the Plains, where the soil is red and soft. Locals call it The Mouth. You’d be stupid to go there. But if you do—and if you dig—you’ll find the instruments. Hundreds of them. Flutes carved from shin bones, drums made of taut, stretched faces, rattles stuffed with teeth. And on each of them? A name. Burned in. Personal. Intimate. The Warchanter doesn’t kill you. He remembers you. And when he sings through one of those instruments, it’s not music. It’s confession. It’s every sin you ever buried, every moment you wished you’d kept your mouth shut. He plays you. In front of the gods. In front of the dead. And worse, in front of whoever you loved most. He doesn’t come every night. That would be mercy. No, he waits until you forget. When the campfire is warm, the food is good, and you’ve finally stopped checking over your shoulder. Then the wind stops. The air gets hot and wet. And the chant begins. No one’s ever escaped him. No one’s ever talked to him and lived. The ones who say they have? They’re just bones in waiting. Hollow people. Echoes with skin. The Warchanter doesn’t negotiate. He collects. He sings. He repeats. Some lunatics worship him now. They walk the Plains naked, carved up, painting his sigil in blood and shit. They say he’s the true god—the only one who listens. But he doesn’t listen. He doesn't care. He’s the punishment. He’s the noise after the silence. He’s the sound that breaks you. And when the world ends—not with fire, not with ice, but with an endless, throbbing rhythm—it’ll be him at the center of it. Chanting. Laughing. Bleeding music through a lion's skull under a dead sky. The Warchanter doesn’t stop. The song goes on. And on. And on.     “Warchanter of the Forgotten Plains” is available for prints, downloads, and licensing through our Dark Art Image Archive. Bring the legend to your wall—if you dare.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Pastel Awakening

Yolanda Hatches with Attitude It all began on an unnaturally sunny morning in the enchanted meadow of Wickerwhim, where flowers bloomed with suspicious cheerfulness and butterflies giggled too loudly for anyone’s comfort. At the center of this excessive joy sat a single, oversized egg. Not just any egg—this one was hand-painted by fairies who got into the glitter again. Swirls of gold vines, pastel polka dots, and blooming sugarflowers wrapped around the shell like an Instagrammable Fabergé fantasy. And inside this egg? Trouble. With wings. The shell cracked. A tiny claw poked through, then another. A faint voice echoed from within: “If I don't get a mimosa in the next five minutes, I’m staying in here until next spring.” The final crack split the egg in half, revealing a rather unimpressed baby dragon. Her scales were the color of champagne and strawberry macarons, shimmering in the sunlight like she'd been incubated in a spa. She blinked once. Then twice. Then threw a perfectly skeptical side-eye at a daffodil. “Don’t look at me like that, flower. You try waking up in a decorative egg without central heating.” This was Yolanda. Not exactly the Chosen One, unless the prophecy was about attitude problems. She stretched one wing, sniffed a tulip, and muttered, “Ugh, allergies. Of course I’m born in a field of airborne pollen.” Nearby, the local bunnies—wearing waistcoats and monocles, because of course they did—gathered in a panic. “The egg has hatched! The prophecy has begun!” one of them squeaked. “The Flower Dragon awakens!” Yolanda looked them up and down. “I better not be in some sort of seasonal prophecy. I just got here, I haven’t even exfoliated yet.” From across the field, the pastel council of Spring Spirits approached. They shimmered like soap bubbles and smelled faintly of marshmallow fluff and judgment. “Welcome, O Eggborn. You are the Herald of Bloom, the Bringer of Renewal, the—” “—The girl who hasn’t had breakfast yet,” Yolanda cut in. “Unless y’all got a caramel-filled peep or something, I’m not saving squat.” The spirits paused. One of them, possibly the leader, floated closer. “You are sassier than expected.” Yolanda yawned. “I’m also cold. I demand a blanket, a brunch buffet, and a name that doesn’t sound like a seasonal candle.” And just like that, the prophesied dragon of spring rose from her glitter egg, blinking into the sunshine and ready to sass her way through destiny—or nap through it, depending on the snack situation. She was Yolanda. She was awake. And heaven help anyone who stood between her and the Easter chocolate. Chocolate Thrones & Marshmallow Rebellions By the afternoon, Yolanda had commandeered a sunhat made of woven daffodil petals, two jellybean necklaces, and a throne constructed entirely from half-melted chocolate bunnies. It was sticky. It was unstable. It was fabulous. “Bring me the soft-centered truffles!” she commanded, draped across the makeshift throne like a decadent lounge singer who'd missed her career calling. “And I swear if I get one more hollow rabbit, someone’s going in the compost pile.” The bunny council tried to keep up with her demands. Harold, a twitchy but well-meaning rabbit with pince-nez glasses and anxiety issues, scurried over with a basket of foil-wrapped goodies. “O Eggborn, perhaps you’d care to review the Festival of Blooming this evening? There will be fireworks and... organic seed cookies?” Yolanda gave him a look so flat it could’ve been served as a crêpe. “Fireworks? In a flower field? Are you trying to start an inferno? And did you say seed cookies? Harold. Babe. I’m a dragon. I don’t do chia.” “But… the prophecies!” Harold whimpered. “Prophecies are just old stories written by people who wanted an excuse to light things on fire,” she replied. “I read half of one this morning. Fell asleep during the ‘Song of Seasonal Restoration’—sounded like a dehydrated elf trying to rhyme ‘photosynthesis.’” Meanwhile, whispers rustled through the meadows. The Marshmallow Folk were stirring. Now, let’s get one thing straight: the Marshmallow Folk were not sweet. Not anymore. They had been sugar-toasted and forgotten by the Seasonal Spirits centuries ago, cursed to bounce eternally between over-sweetness and underappreciation. They wore robes of cellophane and rode PEEPS™ into battle. And Yolanda? She was about to become their Queen. Or their lunch. Possibly both. The first sign came as a ripple across the grass—tiny, spongy feet thudding like aggressive fluff balls. Yolanda sat up on her throne, one claw dipped lazily into a jar of hazelnut spread. “Do you hear that?” “The prophecy says this is the Hour of Saccharine Reckoning!” cried Harold, holding up a parchment so old it crumbled in his paws. “Sounds like a mood swing with branding,” Yolanda muttered. She stood, wings fluttering dramatically for effect. “Let me guess: angry sentient marshmallows, right? Wearing cute hats?” The horde crested the hill like a menacing cloud of dessert-themed vengeance. At the front was a particularly large marshmallow with licorice boots and a jawline that could slice fondant. He pointed a candy cane staff at Yolanda and shouted, “TREMBLE, SHE-WHELP OF SPRING! THE SUGAR SHALL RISE!” Yolanda blinked. “Oh no. They monologue.” He continued, unfazed. “We demand tribute! One seasonal dragon, lightly toasted and dipped in ganache!” “You try to roast me and I swear, I’ll turn this field into crème brûlée,” Yolanda growled. “I just figured out how to breathe warm mist and you want to start a cookout?” Battle nearly broke out right there in the tulips—until Yolanda, with one raised claw, paused the moment like a director at tech rehearsal. “Alright. Everyone stop. Time out. What if—and I’m just brainstorming here—we did a peace treaty. With snacks. And wine.” The Marshmallow general tilted his head. “Wine?” “You ever had rosé and carrot cake? Transcendent,” she smirked. “Let’s vibe instead of barbecue.” It worked. Because of course it did. Yolanda was a dragon of unreasonable charm and unreasonable demands. That night, under garlanded moonlight and glowworms strung like fairy lights, the first ever Festival of Fizzing Treaties took place. Marshmallows and bunnies danced. Spirits got tipsy on honeysuckle mead. Yolanda DJ’d using her wings as cymbals and declared herself ‘Supreme Seasonal Sassmaster.’ By sunrise, a new prophecy had been scribbled into existence, mostly by a drunk faun using syrup and hope. It read: “She came from the egg of pastel bloom,Brought sass and threats of fiery doom.She calmed the fluff, the sweet, the sticky—With brunch and jokes that bordered icky.Hail Yolanda, Queen of Spring—Who’d rather nap than do a thing.” Yolanda approved. She curled up beside a basket of espresso truffles, tail flicking lazily, and muttered, “Now that’s a legacy I can nap to.” And with that, the first dragon of Easter snoozed off into legend—her belly full, her crown askew, and her meadow safe (if slightly caramelized).     Can’t get enough of Yolanda’s pastel sass and egg-born elegance? Bring her magic into your own world with a little help from our enchanted archive! Canvas prints bring her fire-breathing flair to your walls, while the tote bags let you carry attitude and artistry wherever you go. Feeling cozy? Snuggle up in the most extra way possible with a plush fleece blanket. Want a little sass in your space? Try a wall tapestry worthy of any dragon queen’s den. And for those who need their daily dose of pastel power on the go, we’ve got iPhone cases that pack attitude in every tap. Claim your piece of dragon legend now—Yolanda wouldn’t settle for less, and neither should you.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Tongue That Tastes Worlds

The first time Vark tasted the air of this world, he gagged. Not because it was toxic—though it very well could have been—but because it was overwhelming. The spores, the humidity, the electric tingle on his tongue. It was like licking a battery dipped in fermented honey. “Oh, I hate that,” Vark grumbled, retracting his tongue with a shudder. His enormous, glossy black eyes reflected the undulating fungal canopy above him. He could hear them whispering—soft vibrations, imperceptible to the untrained ear. But he wasn’t untrained. He was a professional. A cosmic gourmand. A connoisseur of planetary flavors. His tongue wasn’t just a tongue. It was an instrument, a finely tuned biological marvel that could taste history, energy, even time itself. A single flick could unravel the secrets of a planet. A long slurp? That was for the truly adventurous. And right now, this planet was screaming at him through every pore. “Calm down, calm down,” he muttered, patting a particularly jittery patch of moss. It was like standing in a crowd of gossipy grandmothers, all of them clutching their pearls and whispering frantically in their fungal dialect. Something had them spooked. Vark extended his long, barbed tongue again, letting it slither across the air like a living antenna. A thousand micro-receptors tasted the breeze, the dirt, the pulsing neon mushrooms. Each one told a different story. Some spoke of the soil, rich and ancient. Some whispered of creatures that scurried in the dark, unseen. And one... One sent a jolt through his entire nervous system. “Whoa-ho-ho.” Vark retracted his tongue so fast he almost bit it. “That is not normal.” It had come from a towering mushroom, its cap wide as a ship’s hull, its gills lined with a bioluminescent glow that pulsed like a heartbeat. But it wasn’t just alive. It was aware. And it was trying to tell him something. Vark placed one hand on the spongy surface of the giant fungi and extended his tongue again, cautiously this time. The moment it touched the surface, a rush of information exploded in his mind. Images. Sounds. A rapid download of something that made his whole body twitch. A voice. No, not a voice. A thought. Projected directly into his brain. LEAVE. Vark’s skin crackled with luminescent patterns, shifting from deep blues to anxious purples. His kind didn’t hear things the way most beings did. They tasted information, absorbed it through their tongues, their cells. And this? This was the taste of a warning. “Okay, Big Fungi,” Vark muttered, shaking off the static charge crawling across his limbs. “What exactly am I supposed to be running from?” Then the ground shuddered beneath him. The moss parted in slow, deliberate motion, revealing something just beneath the surface—something metallic. Something humming. Vark took a step back. “Oh, hell no.” The mushrooms swayed violently, their glowing caps flickering in synchronized waves, as if trying to say We told you so. The ground cracked open wider, and for the first time in his very long, very questionable career of licking planets, Vark felt genuine unease. A low mechanical thrum filled the air, rising from the depths of the planet like a beast awakening. Vark’s instincts screamed at him to bolt, to leap onto his ship and fly as far as possible from whatever was stirring beneath the soil. But a professional never left a mystery untasted. “Alright,” he said, flexing his limbs. “Time to get weird.” He unfurled his tongue once more and sent it deep into the crack in the earth. There was a moment of silence. Then a boom so loud the air itself seemed to rip apart. The last thing Vark saw before being hurled backward was a blinding green light, pouring from the chasm like liquid fire. Something was down there. And now? It knew he was here. Vark was airborne. Not the cool kind of airborne where you’re gracefully gliding, limbs extended, basking in the slow-motion glory of an epic moment. No. This was the bad kind. The flailing, limbs-everywhere, internally-screaming kind. The explosion had launched him like a spore in a hurricane. He spun through the thick, spore-drenched air, his body a kaleidoscope of flickering patterns as his brain scrambled to process what the hell just happened. Then he hit something soft. Moss. Blessed, bouncy moss. He landed with a thwump, sinking at least a foot into the squishy terrain. For a moment, he just lay there, limbs splayed, staring at the pulsating fungal sky. “Okay,” he gasped. “Not my worst landing.” His tongue, which had curled protectively mid-flight, unfurled slightly, testing the air. The entire planet was in a state of panic. The spores were vibrating at an alarming rate, sending out distress signals. The mushrooms, normally slow-moving and contemplative, were now twitching, their colors shifting erratically. The entire ecosystem was on edge. And then… The voice returned. YOU HAVE AWAKENED IT. Vark sat up so fast he nearly inhaled a floating spore. “Awakened what?” he asked, coughing. “Listen, I was just sampling the local flavor! I didn’t mean to—” YOU HAVE AWAKENED IT. “Okay, okay! Got it! Super awakened, 10/10, wouldn’t recommend. What is it?” Silence. The mushrooms weren’t answering. But the ground was. A new sound filled the air—a deep, mechanical rumble that sent vibrations up Vark’s spine. It wasn’t just noise. It was language. A frequency that bypassed thought and drilled straight into the nervous system. Vark didn’t like it. He scrambled up, his elongated limbs moving faster than his dignity, and turned toward the crack in the earth. The green light was no longer just light. It was a presence. And it was rising. “Nope,” Vark declared. “Nope, nope, nope.” He turned to run. Too late. The ground erupted, and from its depths came something that made even Vark—who had once licked a black hole just to see what would happen—reconsider his life choices. A vast, shifting mass of bio-metallic tendrils, glistening with a sheen of ancient technology and organic fluid, uncoiled from the depths. It was massive, easily the size of a warship, its form an impossible fusion of living matter and machine. Patches of it glowed with the same neon light as the mushrooms, as if it had been sleeping beneath them for centuries, feeding off their energy. Then it spoke. “WHO DARES TASTE THE LOCK?” Vark froze. “I—I’m sorry, the lock?” The entity shifted, its tendrils weaving through the air like sentient cables. The frequency of its voice wasn’t just sound; it was an assault on reality itself. “THE LOCK WAS SEALED. UNTIL NOW.” Vark’s brain whirred, trying to piece things together while also resisting the urge to scream. “Look, buddy,” he said, raising all four of his hands in what he hoped was a universally disarming gesture. “This is clearly a misunderstanding. I was just, uh, doing some light culinary research. You know, a little planetary tongue-sampling. I had no idea I was licking something important. I mean, I usually do, but not on purpose.” The tendrils twitched. “YOU HAVE BROKEN THE SEAL.” “Oof. That sounds bad.” “YOU HAVE SUMMONED THE END.” Vark took a slow step backward. “Okay. That sounds worse.” The sky above them darkened. The mushrooms, once glowing and vibrant, were now dimming, their colors fading as if something was draining them. Vark extended his tongue again, desperate to taste any final bits of information that might help him not die. And that’s when he realized the truth. This wasn’t just a creature. It was a prison. No. A warden. And the thing it had been containing? It was waking up. Vark slowly turned his head, eyes widening as he saw the second fissure in the ground begin to open. Something was crawling out. Something big. The Warden’s voice thundered one last time. “PREPARE YOURSELF, TONGUE-BEARER.” Vark swallowed hard. “I really hate my job sometimes.” The ground beneath him trembled again. And then, with a roar that shattered the air itself, the true horror of this planet was unleashed.     Own a Piece of the Mystery Vark may have gotten himself into intergalactic trouble, but you can bring the adventure home—without the risk of awakening ancient horrors. Immerse yourself in the surreal beauty of The Tongue That Tastes Worlds with these exclusive collectibles: Tapestry: Transform your space with a stunning, otherworldly display. Canvas Print: A museum-quality piece for those who appreciate the eerie and extraordinary. Puzzle: Piece together the mystery—one mind-bending fragment at a time. Greeting Card: Share an interdimensional surprise with someone special. Click on your favorite product to explore the collection and bring Vark’s bizarre journey into your world!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Flourish in Flight

The Accidental Pilgrimage of Marvin Snork Marvin Snork was not what you'd call a man of purpose. He was a forty-two-year-old semi-retired snack cake delivery driver who lived with a turtle named Gerald and collected expired condiment packets “just in case.” Marvin’s greatest ambition to date had been fitting three microwaved hot dogs into a single tortilla wrap. He called it “The Meat Tube of Triumph,” and it had gotten a modest four likes on an obscure Reddit thread. Then one Tuesday morning, while rifling through his overstuffed drawer of underused camping gear (read: two broken compasses and an emergency poncho from 1998), Marvin found something unexpected: a glitter-covered fanny pack that was most certainly not his. It shimmered like unicorn vomit and smelled vaguely of tequila and regret. Inside the fanny pack was a handwritten note on pink stationery that read: “If you’ve found this, congratulations. You’re the new Keeper of the Quest. Don’t screw it up. Start walking east until something weird happens.”— Love, Destiny (probably) Marvin blinked. He reread it. He sniffed the fanny pack again. Nope. Still tequila. Still regret. Still glittery doom. He wasn’t sure if this was a prank from his cousin Rhonda (a known menace with a label maker) or some elaborate street art project. But one thing Marvin did know, deep in the microwaved burrito of his soul, was that he hadn’t been on an adventure in years. Or ever. So, naturally, Marvin put on the fanny pack, stuffed it with a six-pack of cheese sticks, and walked out his front door wearing mismatched socks and flip-flops. Gerald the turtle watched him leave with what might have been quiet disapproval, or maybe just gas. It was hard to tell with turtles. He walked east, because that’s what the note said. After about four blocks and one inconvenient pigeon incident (RIP to the clean shirt), Marvin encountered his first sign of “something weird.” A man in a trench coat was standing on the corner, aggressively playing the harmonica while holding a sign that read, “ASK ME ABOUT THE BEES.” “Bees?” Marvin asked, genuinely curious and already sweating. “NOT YET,” the man shouted, then threw a banana peel at Marvin’s feet and ran into traffic. Marvin stared after him for a full minute, then looked down. The banana peel was painted gold and smelled like cinnamon. That’s when Marvin knew: this was no ordinary Tuesday. This was a capital-A Adventure. A Quest. Possibly a mild concussion, but he was leaning toward Quest. With a newfound sense of purpose and a fanny pack that sparkled like a glitter bomb at a rave, Marvin marched forward into whatever madness the world had cooked up next. And that, dear reader, is where things started to get truly, spectacularly unhinged...     The Enlightenment of Marvin and the Cult of the Flaming Marshmallow Marvin wandered for three days with nothing but the fanny pack, his dwindling cheese stick supply, and a growing rash from what he later discovered was “artisanal glitter” made of ground-up disco balls and lies. He’d crossed through two small towns, one Renaissance fair he mistook for a time portal, and an abandoned gas station that turned out to be a functioning kombucha bar run by a woman named Starfruit who kept calling him “Brother Snack Vibes.” But nothing compared to the moment he stumbled—sweaty, slightly fermented, and hallucinating about talking squirrels—into the foothills of what appeared to be a sacred gathering. The sign out front read: “WELCOME SEEKERS TO THE SACRED FLAME OF CARAMELIZED WISDOM.” A man in a neon pink robe greeted him. “Name and purpose?” he asked. “Marvin Snork. Uh. Cheese stick enthusiast. Keeper of the Quest, maybe?” The man gasped and dropped to one knee. “The Snork has returned!” he bellowed. Behind him, a group of twenty-five robed individuals began chanting and tossing vegan marshmallows into a bonfire with dramatic flair. One person screamed, “RELEASE THE STICKY TRUTH!” and slapped themselves with a spatula. It was a lot. Turns out, Marvin had unwittingly wandered into a secret society known as the Order of the Flaming Marshmallow—a cult, but like, the fun kind. No Kool-Aid. Just fire, snacks, questionable theology, and a general distrust of pants. Over the next week, Marvin was pampered like a marshmallow god. They gave him ceremonial flip-flops. They massaged his calves with coconut oil and murmured “blessed be thy calves” with unnerving sincerity. They asked him for wisdom, and he offered such gems as: “Never trust a man who hoards condiment packets… unless you are that man.” “If the cheese stick breaks, eat both halves. That’s balance.” “Happiness is a tortilla that doesn’t rip.” These sayings were immediately added to the cult’s sacred scrolls (printed on eco-friendly hemp paper, naturally), and Marvin was declared “The Snack Prophet.” There was even talk of building a statue in his likeness using expired granola bars and hot glue. But one moonlit night, Marvin sat alone by the ceremonial fire, staring at his glitter-smeared fanny pack, which now hummed gently with either cosmic energy or trapped bees (the jury was still out). A robe-clad initiate approached quietly and sat beside him. “You’ve brought us great wisdom,” she said. “But… what are you seeking?” Marvin, sticky, sunburned, slightly gassy, and spiritually overwhelmed, finally admitted: “I honestly don’t know. I just found a weird note and kept walking because… well… my life wasn’t doing much else. And now people are bowing and chanting while I try to poop behind a bush with no judgment. It’s kind of amazing. But also—I dunno. I miss my turtle.” The woman nodded solemnly. “That’s real. Also, we have indoor plumbing. Why are you pooping in the bush?” And that’s when Marvin realized something profound: He wasn’t on a quest for meaning. He was just a middle-aged man who needed to feel something different. Maybe the Quest wasn’t about where you were going, but about giving yourself permission to go absolutely nowhere—just… more enthusiastically. So he stood up, took one last marshmallow shot (yes, that’s a thing), hugged every single cult member goodbye (awkwardly long), and headed west this time. Back to Gerald. Back to the quiet life. With a slightly used fanny pack, a story no one would believe, and a strange urge to start his own line of tortilla-based philosophies called “Wraps of Wisdom.” And as Marvin disappeared into the golden horizon, someone whispered, “The Snack Prophet has ascended.” Someone else replied, “He left his flip-flops.”     Take the Magic Home If Marvin’s accidental pilgrimage inspired you to embrace the weird, the colorful, and the occasionally caffeinated, bring a bit of that same chaotic beauty into your world with Flourish in Flight by Bill and Linda Tiepelman — a vivid celebration of color, motion, and unapologetic flair. Transform your space with a brilliant tapestry that radiates pure hummingbird energy. Hang the magic on your wall with a gallery-quality canvas print. Get cozy with chaos using a throw pillow that’s equal parts comfort and conversation starter. Carry your weird wherever you go with a stylish tote bag that says “I may be lost, but I’m fabulous.” Start your day like a Snack Prophet with a coffee mug that holds more than just caffeine — it holds possibility (and maybe glitter). Marvin found his journey by accident. You can find yours on purpose — one beautiful object at a time.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Queen of the Gossamer Hive

The Buzzening It began on a Tuesday, which was already suspicious. Tuesdays have a way of feeling like Mondays in a cheaper outfit, and this one had a particularly uncanny vibe—like reality was wearing its seams inside out. Desmond Flarrow, mild-mannered beekeeper and semi-retired baritone, stood ankle-deep in clover, admiring his hive and nursing a lukewarm thermos of chamomile gin. It was his daily ritual: check the bees, mutter something poetic, then go inside and pretend to write a novel. But today, something was... humming. Not just the usual bee buzz, but a rich, harmonic vibration that shimmered through the air like a choir of tuning forks singing in Latin. The clover swayed as though tickled by unseen hands, and the sky—was that glitter? From the heart of Hive 7, the one Desmond always suspected was a little “extra,” erupted a flash of gold and cobalt light. The top of the hive popped off like a champagne cork, releasing a scent somewhere between caramel thunder and ancient spellbook. Then, from the misty interior, she emerged. Not a queen bee. The Queen. The mother of buzz. The feathered empress of nectar. She hovered five feet in the air, wings vibrating with lace-like precision, her fur a velvet tapestry of burnt orange, turquoise, and secrets. Eyes like midnight gemstones. She was part insect, part divine fashion statement, and 100% not supposed to be real. "Hello, Desmond," she said, her voice like wind chimes at a burlesque show. "I’m Queen Aurelia. We’ve got work to do." Desmond, to his credit, only spilled half his gin. Before he could ask how or why a bee was speaking to him—and doing it with more charisma than most mayors—Queen Aurelia extended a wing, traced a circle in the air, and opened a glowing portal made entirely of honeycomb patterns and electric tangerine light. "You’ve been chosen," she said. "You’re not just a beekeeper, Desmond. You’re the Keeper of the Old Nectar." "The what-now?" he stammered, already feeling the pull of the portal. His feet lifted off the ground as if the grass had given up on gravity. He floated toward the opening, gin thermos still clutched in one trembling hand. "You’ll understand soon," she purred. "But for now, hold on tight. We’re going beyond the veil. And there’s a bureaucratic centipede who owes me a favor." And with that, they vanished into the glowing vortex, leaving only a scorched clover patch and a very confused squirrel behind. The Nectarverse Bureaucracy and the Dance of Seven Stingers Desmond landed not with a thud, but with the disconcerting squelch of a mushroom sofa. The realm around him pulsed with soft light and whispered in six dialects of Bee. He was inside the Nectarverse—a hidden dimension somewhere between dream logic, jazz improv, and the inside of a Fabergé egg. Everything sparkled, but also somehow smelled faintly of smoked paprika and regret. Queen Aurelia fluttered beside him, radiating confidence and pheromonal majesty. “Welcome to Central Apis,” she declared. “The capital of the pollinational multirealm.” “It’s... weirdly moist,” Desmond muttered, brushing a small constellation of glittering beetles off his shoulder. One of them gave him a tiny thumbs-up. He would later discover this was a political gesture, and he had accidentally committed to sponsoring a dung beetle election campaign. They were greeted by a footman—a centipede in a waistcoat with a monocle on each of his first eight eyes. “Her Majesty Queen Aurelia, Sovereign of Pollenlight, Duchess of Dandelion Dust, and Keeper of the Forbidden Buzz,” he intoned. “And... guest.” Desmond waved sheepishly. “Hi. Just here for the ride, honestly.” Queen Aurelia ignored the formalities. “We need a pass to the Blooming Courts. The Queen of Hornets is stirring again.” The centipede sniffed and unfurled a scroll longer than a tailgate party. “You’ll need to submit Form Bee-17B, request an audience with the Floral Conclave, and schedule a pollen audit. Oh, and your human companion must undergo the Trial of Seven Stingers.” Desmond’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry—the what?” He was immediately whisked away by a swarm of very polite moths in tuxedos, leaving Aurelia behind with the centipede and some impressively tense diplomatic stares. He was flown into a glowing amphitheater made of thistleglass and echoing with murmurs of ancient pollen law. At the center: a circle of thrones shaped like giant flower pistils. On each sat a member of the **Council of Seven Stingers**, draped in pollen-robes and judging everyone with the kind of intensity usually reserved for drag queens and dental hygienists. “State your nectar lineage!” one barked. “Um. I like honey in my tea?” “Unacceptable!” shouted another. “Perform the Dance of Seven Stingers or face eternal reclassification as Floral Debris!” Desmond, not a man of movement, stared into the glowing dance pit. Music began: part techno, part beeswax gospel. A drone passed him a glittering leotard with sequins that spelled “BUZZWORTHY” in six languages. The choice was clear: dance or die. What followed was thirty-seven minutes of increasingly erratic flailing, interpretive twirls, and one accidental summoning of a pollen storm spirit named Todd. The crowd roared. The Council wept. One old wasp knight whispered, “He has the nectar in him.” Back in the foyer of fragrant madness, Queen Aurelia was sipping nectar out of a chalice shaped like a tulip martini glass when Desmond returned, panting and slightly radioactive. “Did I pass?” he croaked. “Oh yes,” she beamed. “Not only did you pass, you’re now legally considered a Demi-Buzz Entity. It comes with dental.” With the bureaucratic nonsense cleared, Aurelia flared her wings, casting dazzling patterns of sacred geometry across the realm. The air vibrated with anticipation. “Now,” she said, “to the Blooming Courts. The Queen of Hornets is plotting to rewrite the Floral Constitution. And I need someone who can dance the unholy pollen out of her.” Desmond blinked. “You want me to dance again?” “Oh, sweetheart,” she smirked, “we’re just getting started.” And with that, they vanished once more into a swirl of chromatic light, ready to face conspiracy, chaos, and at least one ballroom showdown that would be remembered in bee folklore for centuries to come.     🛍️ Take a Piece of the Hive Home If you’re still buzzing from Desmond’s dance of destiny and Queen Aurelia’s gilded glory, why not bring a bit of that enchantment into your own realm? Canvas prints of Queen of the Gossamer Hive capture every luminous detail, while the tapestry turns your wall into a portal to the Nectarverse itself. Sip your own brew like a demi-buzz deity with a mug, cuddle up with a throw pillow, or flaunt your allegiance to the hive with a tote bag. And yes, there’s even a sticker for those of you who want to make your laptop or journal 86% more royal. Long live the buzz!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Chromatic Dragonling: A Tale of Mischief & Mayhem

The Most Unreasonable Egg Roderic was many things—an adventurer, a scholar, a man who could drink his own weight in mead without embarrassing himself (too much). But he was not, under any circumstances, a babysitter. Yet here he was, staring down at the newly hatched creature sprawled across his desk—a tiny dragon with scandalously bright scales and enormous golden eyes that screamed trouble. It had hatched from what he thought was a priceless gemstone he’d “borrowed” from the hoard of an elderly dragon named Morgath. Turns out, Morgath hadn’t been hoarding treasure. He’d been hoarding offspring. “Alright, listen,” Roderic said, rubbing his temples as the dragonling stretched its wings and yawned, completely unbothered. “I don’t know how to raise a baby dragon. I have very little patience. Also, I’m fairly sure your father would like to murder me.” The dragonling let out an exaggerated sigh—as if it were the one suffering—and then flopped onto its back, kicking its stubby little legs. Roderic narrowed his eyes. “Oh, fantastic. You’re dramatic.” In response, the dragonling blew a puff of smoke in his face. Roderic coughed, waving it away. “Rude.” The dragonling grinned. The Problem With Tiny Dragons Over the next few days, Roderic discovered something important: baby dragons were insufferable. First, the dragonling refused to eat anything normal. Fresh meat? No. Roasted chicken? A scoff. Expensive smoked salmon? Spat out onto the rug. The only thing it wanted to eat was a chunk of enchanted obsidian from Roderic’s alchemy stash. “You’re a spoiled little beast, you know that?” he muttered, watching as the dragonling gleefully crunched the magical rock like a snack. Second, it was dramatic. Everything was a performance. The dragonling would flop onto its back if ignored for too long. It would make tragic whimpering sounds when it wasn’t the center of attention. When Roderic dared to leave the room without it? Oh, the betrayal. The screams were enough to make a banshee jealous. Third, and perhaps worst of all, it was an escape artist. Roderic awoke on the third morning to find the dragonling missing. His stomach dropped. His mind immediately conjured images of it accidentally setting his cottage on fire, or worse—running into an angry mob that didn’t appreciate flying fire hazards. Throwing on his cloak, he burst through the front door… only to find the dragonling perched smugly atop his neighbor’s roof, nibbling on what appeared to be a stolen silver necklace. Lady Haversham stood below, hands on her hips. She did not look pleased. “Roderic,” she called sweetly. “Why is there a dragonling on my house?” Roderic sighed. “He’s a menace.” The dragonling chomped the necklace in half and burped. Lady Haversham stared. “I see.” Roderic pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get him down.” Which was easier said than done. The dragonling was thrilled with its newfound height advantage and had no intention of coming down without a game of chase. Roderic had to climb onto the roof, where the little beast made a show of dodging him—skipping, fluttering just out of reach, and chirping happily as if this were the greatest entertainment of its life. Roderic, panting, finally lunged and caught the dragonling mid-air. “Got you, you little gremlin,” he grunted. The dragonling gave him an unrepentant grin and licked his nose. And that’s when Roderic realized three things: This dragonling had absolutely no respect for him. He was completely and utterly outmatched. He was going to have to raise it, whether he liked it or not. He groaned. This was going to be a long adventure.     A Very Illegal Dragon Three weeks later, Roderic had learned two valuable things about raising a dragonling: Nothing in his home was safe. Not his books, not his furniture, certainly not his dignity. Baby dragons grew fast. The once-tiny menace was now twice its original size, still small enough to perch on his shoulder but big enough to knock over shelves when it got excited (which was often). The dramatics hadn’t stopped, either. If anything, they had gotten worse. If Roderic didn’t immediately acknowledge the dragonling’s existence upon waking up, he was met with a series of high-pitched wails that could wake the dead. And the appetite? Impossible. Roderic was now regularly bribing the blacksmith for bits of enchanted metal, all while dodging questions from the local magistrate about why there were occasional flashes of dragonfire coming from his cottage. Which, technically speaking, was a felony. Baby dragons weren’t exactly legal in town. So when a loud BOOM echoed through the streets one evening, Roderic knew—instantly—it was his problem. The Jailbreak Incident He sprinted outside to find that his neighbor’s barn had been blown apart. Standing in the smoldering wreckage was his dragonling, tail flicking, eyes wide with what could only be described as giddy chaos. Next to it stood a very unimpressed city guard. “Roderic,” the guard said, folding his arms. Roderic doubled over, panting. “Hey, Captain. Fancy meeting you here.” “Do you want to explain why your dragon just exploded a barn?” The dragonling puffed up indignantly. It chirped. Roderic straightened, pushing sweat-damp hair out of his face. “I feel like ‘exploded’ is a strong word.” The captain pointed to the burning rubble. “Is it?” Roderic sighed. “Okay, fine. I’ll pay for it.” “You will,” the captain agreed, then lowered his voice. “You need to get that thing out of town. If the magistrate finds out—” “Yeah, yeah, I know.” Roderic turned to the dragonling. “Well, congratulations, you tiny disaster. We’re fugitives now.” On the Run Fleeing town in the dead of night with a smug baby dragon was not how Roderic had planned his life, and yet here he was—leading his horse through the forest, cursing under his breath as the dragonling perched on the saddle like a royal prince. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” he muttered. The dragonling yawned, utterly unrepentant. “Oh, don’t act innocent. You blew up a barn.” It flicked its tail. Chirp. Roderic groaned. “I should’ve left you on that roof.” But they both knew that was a lie. He was stuck with this dragonling. And, worse, a part of him didn’t mind. The wind rustled through the trees. In the distance, he heard the faint sound of riders—probably guards searching for them. He exhaled. “Well, little terror, looks like we’re going on an adventure.” The dragonling blinked, then nuzzled against his cheek. Roderic grumbled. “Ugh. You can’t bribe me with cuteness.” It licked his ear. He sighed. “Fine. Maybe a little.” And so, with no destination in mind and a very illegal dragonling in tow, Roderic took his first step into the unknown. To Be Continued…?     Bring The Chromatic Dragonling Home! Fallen in love with this mischievous little dragon? Now you can keep a piece of its playful magic with you! Whether you want to add a touch of whimsy to your walls, cozy up with its fiery charm, or carry its adventurous spirit wherever you go, we’ve got just the thing: ✨ Tapestries – Transform any space with a touch of dragon magic. 🖼️ Canvas Prints – A stunning centerpiece for any fantasy lover. 🛋️ Throw Pillows – Because every couch deserves a bit of dragon mischief. 👜 Tote Bags – Take the adventure with you wherever you go. 🔥 Stickers – Add a little dragon attitude to your world. Don’t just read about The Chromatic Dragonling—bring it into your realm!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpy Griffin Hatchling

A Face Only a Mother Could Slap Barnaby knew he had made a mistake the moment the egg cracked open. He had expected something majestic—perhaps a regal beast that would soar the skies and guard his treasure hoard. What he got instead was a fistful of pissed-off fluff with the attitude of a bar bouncer who just got stiffed on a tip. The tiny griffin glared up at him with an expression that said, "I already hate you, and I’ve only been alive for twelve seconds." Its golden feathers bristled, its curled tail flicked like an irritated cat’s, and its beady little eyes burned with the fiery rage of an overcooked omelet. "Well, aren’t you just the embodiment of sunshine and rainbows," Barnaby muttered, rubbing his temples. The griffin let out a sound—part squawk, part growl, part tax audit notice. Then it immediately turned, lifted its tiny lion-esque rear, and shat on his boots. "Oh, for fu—" Barnaby grabbed an old towel, cursing whatever gods had let him hatch this grumpy abomination. He had paid a shady wizard a fortune for a 'Rare & Exotic Mystic Guardian.' Instead, he got a sentient middle finger wrapped in fur and feathers. A Starving, Screeching Nightmare Day two was somehow worse. As soon as the sun rose, so did the hellspawn, screeching with the desperate hunger of a drunken noble who just realized his servants forgot to restock the wine cellar. Barnaby tried raw meat. The griffin sniffed it and kicked it away like a snobby food critic. “Alright, asshole. What do you want?” he groaned. The griffin stared at him with all the warmth of a tax collector. Then, in a move that should not have been possible for something so tiny, it pounced—sinking its baby talons into his arm. “GAH! What the hell?! You little—” The creature didn’t bite. Instead, it glared at him harder. And then, with painstakingly slow effort, it reached over, grabbed the hunk of meat it had just rejected, and took a delicate, smug little nibble. "Oh, so you just wanted to establish dominance first, huh? Great. I’m raising a tiny warlord." The griffin made a chirping sound that almost sounded like laughter. Destroyer of Sleep, Devourer of Sanity By the end of the first week, Barnaby had reached new levels of exhaustion. The griffin, whom he had begrudgingly started calling "Bastard" because that’s what he shouted most often, had two hobbies: Judging him from atop furniture he had no business climbing. Waking him up every two hours with a scream that could curdle milk. It was like raising a demonic toddler with wings. Every time Barnaby thought he had a moment of peace, Bastard would knock something over, screech at nothing, or—on particularly annoying days—stare at the wall for hours, making Barnaby increasingly paranoid that he was about to be murdered by an invisible entity. And yet… the little bastard was kind of adorable. In an “I-hate-you-but-would-also-kill-anyone-who-hurt-you” kind of way. But there was no way in hell Barnaby was ready for what came next. The Tiny Terror Ascends Barnaby had survived bandits, bounty hunters, and one particularly bad case of dragon-induced food poisoning, but nothing had prepared him for the absolute nightmare that was a griffin experiencing its first wing growth spurt. “I swear to the gods, Bastard, if you knock over one more—” CRASH. “—thing.” Bastard sat on the floor, staring blankly at the shattered remains of a priceless vase. His golden wings, still awkward and too big for his tiny frame, twitched in what could only be described as absolute lack of remorse. Barnaby pinched the bridge of his nose. “That was an antique.” The griffin blinked. Then, in a deliberate move that was clearly designed to ruin his entire week, it stood up, strutted over to another vase, and swiped it off the table while maintaining direct eye contact. Barnaby let out a long, defeated sigh. He was never going to financially recover from this. Attempted Flight, Attempted Murder It was inevitable that Bastard would eventually try to fly. And, much like every other moment of his short existence, he approached it with a mix of arrogance and homicidal intent. The first attempt was harmless enough—mostly flapping, a lot of screeching, and a dramatic faceplant into Barnaby’s laundry pile. The second attempt, however, involved launching himself off the bookshelf while Barnaby was in the middle of breakfast. There was no warning. No chirp, no squawk, no malicious glint in his eye. Just *WHUMP*—a sudden impact as an entire griffin hatchling landed on Barnaby’s face. His chair tipped over. His breakfast flew across the room. His life flashed before his eyes. “YOU FEATHERED DEMON,” he bellowed, flailing wildly as Bastard flapped like a panicked bat and promptly got tangled in his hair. It took several minutes, a lot of screaming, and one overturned table before the two of them emerged from the disaster, panting and covered in food. Bastard, as usual, looked completely unbothered. “I hope you choke on your own smugness,” Barnaby grumbled. The griffin chirped, pecked at a bit of egg in Barnaby’s beard, and then strutted away like he hadn’t just committed attempted manslaughter via dive bomb. Mutual Loathing, Mutual Loyalty Weeks passed. Bastard grew bigger. More graceful. Slightly less inclined to wake Barnaby up at ungodly hours. He still judged him constantly, still acted like an entitled little prince, but somewhere between the destruction, the screaming, and the minor injuries, a grudging respect had formed. Barnaby had once thought about selling him back to that shady wizard, but the moment some idiot tried to mug him in the alley, Bastard had detached a man’s ear in under four seconds. After that, Barnaby figured… maybe the little hellspawn wasn’t so bad. Maybe. One evening, as Barnaby sat by the fire nursing a well-earned ale, Bastard flapped up onto his shoulder. He weighed a lot more now, and his talons dug into his skin, but Barnaby was too tired to care. The griffin let out a low, contented chirp and—perhaps for the first time ever—nuzzled his cheek. Barnaby narrowed his eyes. “If you puke on me, I swear—” But Bastard just curled his tail around Barnaby’s neck and dozed off, golden wings twitching as he fell into sleep. Barnaby exhaled, took another sip of ale, and grumbled, “Fine. But you’re still a little shit.” Somewhere in the realm of sleep, Bastard chirped in agreement.     Take Home Your Own Little Bastard Love Bastard but not quite ready for the whole ‘raising a chaotic griffin’ experience? Good news—you can still enjoy his grumpy little face without dealing with the destruction! Check out these glorious ways to bring The Grumpy Griffin Hatchling into your home: Need a statement piece that silently judges your life choices? Get a Canvas Print. Want your space to exude the energy of a tiny, furious guardian? Snag a Tapestry. Feel like your couch is too peaceful? Add some attitude with a Throw Pillow. Want to carry around a piece of griffin-fueled chaos? Grab a Tote Bag—perfect for storing snacks, spellbooks, or questionable life decisions. Unlike the real Bastard, these versions won’t destroy your furniture, scream at ungodly hours, or attempt aerial assassinations. Probably.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Fluff of Wrath

A Feathered Menace is Born The villagers of Ember Hollow had many things to fear—rogue spells, mischievous sprites, the occasional fire-breathing goat (long story)—but nothing prepared them for the wrath of a particularly tiny, exceptionally furious ball of fluff. It began, as most catastrophes do, with an innocent mistake. Old Maeryn, the town’s eccentric herbalist, had discovered a peculiar egg nestled in the roots of a charred oak. Thinking it abandoned, she took it home, set it by the fire, and promptly forgot about it. That is, until it hatched. And oh, what a hatching it was. With a crack, a snap, and an explosion of embers, out popped a creature so ridiculously adorable it should have been illegal. But instead of soft peeps and wobbling steps, this fiery fledgling locked eyes with Maeryn, fluffed up its smoking feathers, and let out a shriek of pure, unfiltered rage. “What… in the blazes… are YOU?” Maeryn muttered, brushing soot from her apron. The chick’s eyes burned—literally—like twin molten suns, its expression that of a tiny overlord who had just discovered his empire was made of peasants. With an indignant chirp, it stomped forward, radiating a heat that singed Maeryn’s hem. She grabbed a wooden spoon and pointed it at the chick like a sword. “Now listen here, you little fire hazard,” she scolded. “I saved you, so you’d best drop the attitude.” The chick did not drop the attitude. If anything, it doubled down. It flared its wings (adorably useless), puffed out its chest (somehow even fluffier), and narrowed its smoldering eyes with all the menace of a pint-sized warlord. Then it sneezed. And set the curtains on fire. “Oh, fantastic.” Maeryn groaned as she grabbed a bucket. The fire was quickly extinguished, but the chick remained, unbothered, glaring at her with the silent fury of an emperor insulted by an unworthy subject. With a sigh, Maeryn folded her arms and stared back. “I suppose you need a name, don’t you?” she mused. “How about Ember?” The chick’s feathers flared brighter. It did not look impressed. “Ignis?” The chick let out a disgusted chirp. “Oh, for the love of—FINE. You tell me then.” The chick blinked. Its beak curled in the tiniest, most mischievous smirk. Then, with slow, deliberate menace, it hopped onto a wooden spoon, balanced itself like a feathered king upon his throne, and stared deep into Maeryn’s soul. “Blaze.” Maeryn’s jaw dropped. “Did you just—did you actually just name yourself? By the stars, what are you?” Blaze said nothing. He simply fluffed up, smirked again, and hopped off the spoon as if to say, You’ll find out soon enough. And that was the moment Maeryn realized she had made a terrible mistake. The Reign of Blaze It didn’t take long for the villagers to realize something was… different about Maeryn’s new ‘pet.’ For one, Blaze had opinions. Strong ones. And he expressed them with fire. The baker learned this the hard way when he refused to give Blaze an extra pastry. A perfectly golden croissant was exchanged for a pile of ashes. The town’s blacksmith, a burly man with the patience of a saint, tried to “train” Blaze into behaving. Blaze responded by perching on his anvil and making every single horseshoe he forged mysteriously melt into puddles. And poor old Thom, who dared to call Blaze ‘cute,’ found himself inexplicably locked in his outhouse for three whole days. “That chick is pure chaos.” Thom declared once freed. Maeryn, now sporting singed eyebrows and an ever-present air of exhaustion, could only nod. “I’d give him away, but I think he’d just set my house on fire in revenge.” Meanwhile, Blaze was busy asserting his dominance. He had claimed a spot on the village fountain, where he would sit, fluffing and glaring, as if he were the self-appointed king of Ember Hollow. Passersby would cautiously nod in greeting, lest they incur his wrath. The mayor, in a last-ditch effort to regain control, even tried offering Blaze an “Official Town Mascot” title. Blaze listened. Considered. Then set the mayor’s hat on fire. Things only escalated from there. It started small—chamber pots mysteriously heating up, porridge bowls boiling over before anyone touched them. Then, Blaze discovered revenge. A woman who shooed him out of her garden woke up to find every vegetable in it roasted. A man who laughed at Blaze’s size found his boots melted to the cobblestone. By the time the villagers realized they were living under a tiny, flame-feathered tyrant, it was too late. Blaze had taken full control. “We have to do something!” one of the council members whispered at a secret meeting. “Like what?” another hissed. “He’s unstoppable! He sneezes, and half the town needs repairs!” “Then we outsmart him,” Maeryn declared. “He’s got power, but he’s also got an ego bigger than his body. We just have to make him think it’s his idea to leave.” And so, the next morning, the town gathered at the square, where Blaze sat atop his usual perch, peering down at them like an unimpressed deity. Maeryn stepped forward, clearing her throat. “Oh great and powerful Blaze,” she began, barely suppressing her sarcasm, “we have an honor to bestow upon you.” Blaze blinked, intrigued. “You, our glorious overlord, have clearly outgrown this humble village,” she continued. “Your power is too grand, your presence too mighty. It is time you take your rightful place in the Royal Palace.” Blaze tilted his head. Palace? “Yes, yes!” one of the council members jumped in. “A legendary place where great beings such as yourself are worshipped and given endless food.” Blaze ruffled his feathers, considering this. Worship? Endless food? A palace? He let out a smug little chirp. “We shall escort you there in glorious procession,” Maeryn said dramatically. “Immediately.” With that, they placed Blaze onto a velvet pillow, carried him to the grandest carriage in town, and—with a final chorus of exaggerated praises—sent him off to a castle many miles away, where he would definitely be someone else’s problem. The villagers watched as the carriage disappeared over the hills. Then, in unison, they exhaled. “Do you think he’ll actually make it to the palace?” Thom asked. Maeryn shook her head. “Oh, absolutely not. But that’s a future problem.” And with that, Ember Hollow was free. For now.     Bring the Wrath Home! 🔥 Blaze may have left Ember Hollow, but his fiery spirit lives on! Want to add some smoldering attitude to your space? Check out The Fluff of Wrath collection and take home this mischievous little tyrant in style: 🔥 Tapestry – Let Blaze loom over your kingdom (or living room) like the tiny overlord he is. 🔥 Canvas Print – Perfect for anyone who appreciates a side of attitude with their décor. 🔥 Tote Bag – Carry a little chaos with you wherever you go. Warning: May intimidate lesser bags. 🔥 Round Beach Towel – Because nothing says “don’t mess with me” like sunbathing with a furious fireball. 🔥 Throw Pillow – Soft, sassy, and slightly menacing. Just like Blaze. Get yours now and channel your inner firebird! 🔥🐤

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Grumpy Rain Sprite

A Sprite's Soggy Misery It had been a perfectly pleasant morning in the enchanted forest—until, of course, the sky decided to have a breakdown. One moment, the birds were singing, the mushrooms were gossiping, and the sun was doing its usual “Look at me, I’m glorious” routine. The next? A torrential downpour turned the world into a damp, sloshing nightmare. And no one was more annoyed than Thistle, the resident rain sprite with a temperament as stormy as the weather. She sat in a growing puddle, wings sagging under the weight of a thousand raindrops, her favorite moss dress clinging to her like a soggy tea bag. Her silver hair, normally a wild halo of untamed curls, was now a limp, rain-drenched disaster. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, hugging her arms tightly against her chest. “Absolutely ridiculous.” She yanked her massive leaf-umbrella lower over her head, scowling as another rivulet of water dripped off the edge and splattered onto her nose. The universe clearly had a vendetta against her today. Probably because of that whole "convincing the fireflies to unionize" incident last week. The elders had warned her about the consequences of mischief, but seriously, who even enforces karma these days? A rustling sound made her glance up, her pointed ears twitching. Emerging from behind a cluster of mushrooms was a familiar figure—Twig, the local mischief-maker and general pain in her leafy backside. Of course, he would show up now, probably just to mock her. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, his wings twitching with amusement. “If it isn’t Queen Soggy of Puddleland. Shall I fetch you a throne made of mud, or are you still holding court in your personal swamp?” Thistle fixed him with a withering glare. “If you value your wings, Twig, you will remove yourself from my miserable presence before I hex you into a slug.” Twig gasped dramatically, placing a hand over his heart. “A slug! Oh no! Whatever shall I do? It’s not like it’s already so wet I’d probably thrive as a slimy, wriggling creature.” He smirked, then plucked a dripping mushroom from the ground. “But honestly, Thistle, why the tragic act? You’re a rain sprite. This is literally your element.” “I control rain, I don’t enjoy being waterboarded by it,” she snapped. “There’s a difference.” “Ah, so it’s the ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach. Very powerful leadership strategy.” Twig leaned on her leaf umbrella, making it droop dangerously close to collapsing entirely. “But hey, if you hate it so much, why not stop the rain?” Thistle let out a long, slow breath, resisting the urge to throttle him. “Because,” she gritted out, “that would require effort. And right now, I am choosing to marinate in my suffering like a dignified and tragic figure.” “Uh-huh. Super dignified,” Twig said, tilting his head at the way her damp dress clung to her legs. “You look like a particularly upset swamp rat.” Thistle reached out and shoved him into the nearest puddle. “That was uncalled for!” he sputtered, sitting up, now as drenched as she was. “You know what else is uncalled for? This entire rainstorm!” she barked, throwing her hands up, sending a gust of wind through the trees. “I had plans today, Twig. Plans. I was going to nap in a sunbeam, bother some butterflies, maybe even steal a honey drop from the pixie hive. And instead? Instead, I am here. In this puddle. Soaking. Suffering.” “Truly tragic,” Twig said, flopping backward into the puddle dramatically. “Someone should write a song about your struggle.” Thistle growled. She was going to kill him. Or, at the very least, strongly inconvenience him. A Sprite’s Revenge is Best Served Soggy Thistle took a deep breath, inhaling the damp, earthy scent of the rain-soaked forest. She needed to calm down. Committing sprite-on-sprite violence would only get her in trouble with the elders again, and honestly, their lectures were worse than Twig’s face. Twig, still sprawled in the puddle like some kind of lazy river nymph, smirked up at her. “You know, if you stopped sulking long enough, you might realize something.” Thistle narrowed her eyes. “Oh, this should be good. Enlighten me, oh wise and irritating one.” “You love chaos, right?” He flicked some water at her, and she barely resisted the urge to fry him with a well-aimed lightning bolt. “So why not embrace the storm? Make everyone else just as miserable as you?” Her scowl twitched. “Go on…” He sat up, grinning now, sensing he had her attention. “Think about it. The dryads just put up their new moss tapestries—imagine the heartbreak when they find them soggy and ruined.” He gestured wildly. “The mushroom folk? I hear they just finished harvesting their prized sun-dried spores. And the pixies? Ha! They’ve been preening their wings all week for the Solstice Ball. One extra gust of wind and—” Thistle’s face split into a wicked grin. “—frizz city.” “Exactly.” Twig leaned in conspiratorially. “You have the power to turn a minor inconvenience into a full-blown disaster. You could make this the most memorable storm of the decade.” Thistle tapped her fingers against her arm, considering. The elders would frown upon it. Then again, the elders frowned upon pretty much everything she did, and honestly, at this point, she was just collecting their disapproval like rare artifacts. Slowly, a plan began to form. She stood, shaking the rain from her wings with an air of purpose. “Alright, Twig. You’ve convinced me. But if we’re doing this, we’re going all in.” His grin widened. “Oh, I wouldn’t expect anything less.” Thistle cracked her knuckles. The sky rumbled in response. The first thing she did was kick up the wind—not enough to be dangerous, but just enough to make all the well-groomed pixies regret their life choices. Delicate curls frizzed instantly. Dresses caught in the wind, wings flapped uselessly, and the air was filled with high-pitched shrieks of horror. Next, she turned her attention to the dryads. Oh, their moss tapestries had been beautiful. Key word: had. Now? Now they were nothing more than damp, sagging clumps of regret. “This is delightful,” Twig sighed happily, watching a group of mushroom folk scramble to cover their precious spores. “I haven’t had this much fun since I convinced the fireflies that blinking in Morse code was a revolutionary act.” Thistle let the rain surge for one last dramatic flourish, sending a final gust of wind to scatter the pixies like irate confetti. Then, just as suddenly as it had started, she stopped it. The rain ceased. The wind died. The forest was left in a state of soggy, chaotic despair. And in the middle of it all, Thistle stood, looking very pleased with herself. “Well,” she said, stretching lazily. “That was satisfying.” Twig clapped her on the back. “You, my dear, are a menace. And I respect that.” She smirked. “I do try.” From somewhere deep in the forest, a furious elder’s voice rang out. “THISTLE!” Twig winced. “Oof. That’s got some real ‘disappointed parent’ energy.” Thistle sighed dramatically. “Ugh. Consequences. So tedious.” “Run?” Twig suggested. “Run,” she agreed. And with that, the two sprites vanished into the drenched, chaotic forest, cackling like the absolute menaces they were. Bring Thistle’s Mischief Home! Love the sass, the storm, and the sheer chaotic energy of our favorite rain sprite? Now you can capture her brooding brilliance in a variety of stunning formats! Whether you want to add a touch of whimsical rebellion to your walls, solve a puzzle as tricky as Thistle herself, or jot down your own mischievous plans, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestry – Let Thistle reign over your space with fabric as dramatic as her attitude. 🖼️ Canvas Print – Museum-quality snark for your walls. 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Because piecing together chaos is surprisingly therapeutic. 💌 Greeting Card – Share the moody magic with your fellow mischief-makers. 📓 Spiral Notebook – Perfect for plotting pranks, poetry, or your next escape plan. Don’t just admire Thistle—invite her into your world. She promises to bring charm, attitude, and possibly a little rain.    

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

High & Fungi

The Chillest Cap in the Forest The forest was alive with the sounds of rustling leaves, chirping crickets, and the occasional giggle of a mischievous fairy. Deep within the mossy undergrowth, nestled between the roots of an ancient oak, sat a mushroom unlike any other. His cap was lopsided, his red spots slightly faded, and his wooden-textured skin bore the wisdom of countless seasons. His name? Shlomo the Shroom. And if there was one thing Shlomo knew how to do better than any other fungi in the woods, it was to chill. “Brooo,” he exhaled, though mushrooms don’t technically breathe. “The air is like… so thick with vibes today, man.” A tiny glowing fairy, named Zibbit, fluttered down onto his cap, casually reclining like it was the comfiest beanbag in the world. “Shlomo, you’ve literally been sitting in the same spot for, like, a hundred years.” Shlomo squinted his oversized, half-lidded eyes. “Exactly. You think enlightenment just grows on trees?” He chuckled to himself. “Well, actually, it kinda does, but you know what I mean.” Zibbit rolled onto her back, stretching her tiny arms. “You ever get tired of just… doing nothing?” Shlomo wobbled slightly. “Oh, my sweet, sweet, naïve little winged homie. Nothing is everything. You gotta just be, man. Like, let the wind carry your worries, let the earth hold your past, and let the morning dew… like… I dunno, moisturize you or whatever.” Zibbit stared. “That might be the dumbest but most profound thing I’ve ever heard.” Just then, a rustling in the bushes made them both pause. Out of the shadows emerged a frantic-looking squirrel, eyes wide, tail twitching like it had just been struck by lightning. “GUYS!” the squirrel screeched. “THE OWLS! THEY KNOW!” Shlomo blinked slowly. “Know what, my hyperactive acorn-munching amigo?” The squirrel darted back and forth like it had overdosed on espresso. “I— I don’t know! BUT THEY KNOW!” Zibbit sat up. “Wait… what are we talking about?” The squirrel grabbed its own face, hyperventilating. “THE OWLS KNOW, MAN! ABOUT— ABOUT THE THING! THE SECRET! THE BIG, HUGE—” Shlomo let out a long, slow sigh. “Dude. Relax. Take a breath. Let the cosmic currents, like… un-knot your little tail, bro.” The squirrel stopped. He looked at Shlomo. Then at Zibbit. Then back at Shlomo. “Oh. Yeah. Good call.” He took a deep breath. Then another. Then, with sudden clarity, he whispered, “Wait… what were we talking about?” Shlomo grinned. “My dude. Exactly.” The Cosmic Revelation The squirrel, now in a state of deep existential confusion, flopped onto the forest floor, staring at the sky. “Whoa… I feel… kinda better. Maybe I just needed to slow down.” Shlomo nodded sagely, his cap wobbling slightly. “That’s the thing, little buddy. You rush around, chase acorns, worry about owls, and next thing you know, you forget to just exist, ya know?” Zibbit, still lounging on Shlomo’s cap, flicked a tiny spark of fairy dust into the air. “You’re really just making all of this up as you go, aren’t you?” Shlomo grinned. “Absolutely. And yet… doesn’t it make perfect sense?” The squirrel, now reclining in the moss, let out a relaxed sigh. “Damn. Maybe I have been overthinking things. Like… what if the owls don’t actually know anything?” Shlomo’s eyes widened slightly. “Whoa. What if, like… nobody knows anything?” A hush fell over the forest. Zibbit sat up. “Wait. Hold on. That’s actually kind of deep.” Shlomo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What if… reality is just, like… one big dream, man? Like, some enormous being is just tripping HARD right now, and we’re all part of its hallucination?” The squirrel gasped. “And when it wakes up…” “…POOF,” Shlomo said, wiggling his little wooden fingers for dramatic effect. “Gone. Just… spores in the wind.” Zibbit shuddered. “Dude, I was just here for the vibes. Now you’ve got me questioning the nature of my existence.” Shlomo exhaled—again, despite not having lungs. “Hey, don’t stress it, little winged wonder. Even if we’re all just part of some cosmic fever dream, it’s a pretty damn nice dream, yeah?” The squirrel nodded slowly. “Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I mean, I get free acorns. I got trees. I got my little twitchy tail. Life’s good.” Zibbit flopped back onto Shlomo’s cap, wings twitching. “You know what? Screw it. If reality is just a hallucination, I’m at least gonna enjoy it.” Shlomo grinned. “Now you’re getting it.” The trio sat in comfortable silence, watching the forest sway gently in the golden light. Birds chirped. Leaves rustled. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted. The squirrel bolted upright. “Wait—THE OWLS KNOW! WE FORGOT!” Shlomo chuckled, eyes half-lidded once more. “Did we, though?” The squirrel blinked. Thought for a moment. Then let out a slow exhale. “Damn. Good point.” And just like that, the great owl conspiracy was forgotten forever. Probably.     Take the Chill Vibes Home Love Shlomo’s laid-back wisdom? Now you can bring his mellow energy into your space with exclusive “High & Fungi” merch! Whether you're decorating your home, solving a puzzle, or carrying your essentials in style, we've got something for every fungi fan. 🌿 Tapestry – Perfect for transforming your space into a chill zone. 🎨 Canvas Print – Let Shlomo’s wisdom hang on your walls. 🧩 Puzzle – A trippy way to relax, one piece at a time. 👜 Tote Bag – Carry your essentials with mushroom-level chill. Get yours today and embrace the ultimate fungi philosophy—sit back, vibe, and let the world flow, man. 🍄✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpicorn's Garden

The Curse of the Eternal Mood In the heart of the Enchanted Woodland, nestled between the Gigglebrook River and the Whimsydale Meadow, lay the most peculiar of places—The Grumpicorn’s Garden. A land of sparkling petals, twinkling dewdrops, and fluffy pastel clouds that floated lazily in the sky. It was, without question, a paradise. And yet, its self-appointed ruler was the grumpiest little creature to ever exist. Her name? Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III. Her title? The Supreme Empress of Perpetual Discontent. Her mood? Permanently unimpressed. Legend has it that Lady Fluffington was once an ordinary, albeit incredibly dramatic, feline. But one fateful day, a mischievous fairy named Glimmerdew tripped over her tail. In a fit of melodramatic rage, Fluffington unleashed a tantrum so magnificent that it sent Glimmerdew spiraling into a bush of sentient tulips. Enraged (and covered in pollen), the fairy placed a curse upon Fluffington. “May your fur be forever fabulous! May your horn shine brighter than the stars! And may you, above all else, be doomed to a life of… unbearable sassiness!” There was a dramatic clap of thunder (despite it being a perfectly clear day), and Fluffington was transformed into what she was always meant to be—a Grumpicorn. A tiny, fluffy, pink-maned, unicorn-horned feline with a permanent look of pure judgment. A being of beauty, but also of unrelenting moodiness. A Reign of Grumpiness Now, instead of spending her days doing normal cat things—like knocking cups off tables or plotting world domination—Fluffington ruled over her garden with an iron paw. She had a strict set of rules, all written in glittery ink on a scroll of enchanted parchment: Rule #1: No excessive cheerfulness. Smiling is acceptable in moderation, but giggling? Punishable by an immediate, soul-piercing glare. Rule #2: Do not, under any circumstances, call her “adorable.” The penalty? A single, dramatic hair flip followed by an exasperated sigh. Rule #3: Offerings of fine tuna and imported cream are required upon entering the garden. Rule #4: If one must compliment her, the words “majestic,” “glorious,” or “queenly” are preferred. Despite these rules, the woodland creatures couldn’t help but adore Lady Fluffington. The enchanted rabbits fluffed their tails in admiration. The owls whispered about her legendary sass. Even the fairies, despite their grudge, frequently peeked into the garden just to bask in her undeniable aesthetic. The Arrival of Trouble One peaceful afternoon, as Fluffington lounged on a plush velvet cushion (because grass was simply too pedestrian for her delicate paws), a shadow loomed over her kingdom. “HARK, MORTAL BEAST!” a voice bellowed. “I, PRINCE GUMDROPLEON OF THE GIGGLE FAIRIES, DEMAND AUDIENCE!” Fluffington, without even opening her eyes, exhaled the most exasperated sigh in the history of sighs. Fairies. Again. The prince, clad in shimmering golden tights and a cape made of literal stardust, fluttered down in a swirl of unnecessary dramatics. “You have long defied the Sacred Code of Whimsy! Your kingdom of perpetual sass threatens the balance of the Enchanted Woodland! By decree of the Grand Council of Unrelenting Cheerfulness, I demand you lighten up!” Fluffington finally cracked one eye open, her gaze dripping with disdain. “I will lighten up when the sun stops being an overachiever, Greg.” “It’s PRINCE GUMDROPLEON.” “Mmmhmm. Sure, Greg.” The prince huffed, twirling his wand impatiently. “You leave me no choice, Lady Fluffington. If you do not surrender your grumpiness willingly, we will FORCE you to experience joy!” At this, Fluffington’s tail twitched ever so slightly. “Excuse me?” “By the power vested in me, I hereby challenge you to the most sacred of fairy duels—The Trial of Ultimate Delight!” The enchanted woodland fell silent. A single petal drifted dramatically through the air. Somewhere, a butterfly gasped. Lady Fluffington narrowed her eyes. “You dare challenge me?” Prince Gumdropleon nodded. “If you lose, you must embrace whimsy, laughter, and all things joyous. If you win, well… you won’t win.” Fluffington rose to her paws, her horn glistening with defiant radiance. “Oh, sweet summer child,” she purred, “prepare to be grump-smacked.” The Trial of Ultimate Delight The air crackled with anticipation as woodland creatures, fairies, and a particularly nosy squirrel gathered to witness the most absurd showdown in enchanted history. Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III stood on one side, her tail swishing with supreme irritation. On the other, Prince Gumdropleon, his wings glittering with unearned confidence. A floating, sentient parchment hovered between them, unrolling with a flourish. “BEHOLD!” it boomed. “The sacred rules of The Trial of Ultimate Delight are as follows: The challenger—Prince Gumdropleon—shall present a series of whimsical challenges designed to break the accused’s grumpy demeanor. The accused—Lady Fluffington—must endure each trial without succumbing to joy.” Fluffington yawned. “Fabulous. Let’s get this nonsense over with.” Trial One: The Dance of Inescapable Cheer With a snap of his fingers, Gumdropleon summoned a battalion of enchanted tap-dancing mushrooms. They shuffled, twirled, and clicked their tiny feet in a synchronized performance so aggressively delightful that birds started harmonizing in the trees. The fairies swayed. The woodland creatures clapped. Even the trees seemed to bop along. Lady Fluffington? She blinked once. Slowly. “Not even a toe tap?” Gumdropleon gasped. Fluffington’s eyes remained void of amusement. “Your fungi are basic, Greg.” The mushrooms, insulted, pirouetted away in defeat. Trial Two: The Giggle Gauntlet Undeterred, the prince summoned a team of expert gigglers—fluffy baby bunnies, baby goats in pajamas, and one particularly chubby hedgehog in a tiny top hat. They snorted, wheezed, and tumbled over each other in a display of weaponized cuteness. The fairies collapsed from sheer delight. Fluffington watched, her expression colder than an ice sculpture of disappointment. “Precious,” she finally muttered. “But I have witnessed greater chaos at a brunch buffet.” The hedgehog dramatically fainted. Trial Three: The Sacred Sprinkles of Doom Prince Gumdropleon was sweating now. “Fine,” he said. “You leave me no choice. I must unleash the ultimate weapon.” He raised his wand, and from the heavens rained down… sprinkles. Pink. Blue. Glittering. Swirling in the air like a whimsical blizzard of saccharine doom. Fluffington gasped. Not out of joy—but out of pure, undiluted fury. “HOW DARE YOU?” she bellowed, shaking off the cursed confetti. “DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO GET SPRINKLES OUT OF FUR? THIS IS A WAR CRIME!” Gumdropleon smirked. “Ah-ha! You reacted! That counts as a—” Before he could finish, Fluffington’s horn pulsed with a blinding light. The ground trembled. The flowers shrank back in fear. The prince barely had time to yelp before a powerful GRUMP-WAVE exploded from the tiny unicorn-cat. The sprinkles disintegrated midair. The giggling bunnies went solemn. Somewhere, in the distance, a rainbow curled in on itself and wept. Victory and Consequences When the dust settled, Prince Gumdropleon lay face-down in a pile of existential dread. “So,” Fluffington said, delicately licking her paw, “who, exactly, was supposed to win again?” The sentient parchment twitched. “The accused has successfully resisted all forms of delight. She is, without a doubt, the Supreme Empress of Perpetual Discontent.” The woodland erupted into cheers—not of joy, but of deep, unwavering respect. Even the grudge-holding fairies had to admit it. Lady Fluffington Von Sassypaws III was simply too powerful. The Aftermath Prince Gumdropleon, now emotionally wounded beyond repair, rose with a dramatic sigh. “Fine,” he muttered. “You win. Keep your grumpiness. But know this…” He pointed a glittery finger at Fluffington. “I WILL RETURN.” “Mmhmm,” she said, already walking away. “Let me know how that works out for you, Greg.” And with that, the Grumpicorn stretched luxuriously, climbed onto her velvet cushion, and went back to what she did best—being gloriously, unapologetically unimpressed. Her garden remained as it always had—enchanted, beautiful, and ruled by the world’s most magnificent, moody, undefeated little creature.     Bring the Grumpicorn Home Do you feel a deep, spiritual connection to Lady Fluffington’s unmatched level of sass? Do you, too, wish to bask in her unimpressed majesty? Good news—you can now welcome the Grumpicorn into your own kingdom! From regal canvas prints to mood-boosting (or mood-matching) throw pillows, you can bring her iconic presence into your home. Whether you need a tapestry to transform your space, a wood print to add timeless elegance, or even a puzzle to ponder her greatness piece by piece—there’s a Grumpicorn for every occasion. Remember: A home without a Grumpicorn is just a house. Make yours truly enchanting.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

A Trio of Springtime Mischief

The Great Bloom Heist Spring had arrived in the Enchanted Grove, and with it came the annual Cherry Blossom Festival—a time when the air smelled like honeyed petals, and even the grumpiest trolls cracked a smile (albeit begrudgingly). The festival was a sacred event, marked by a grand ceremony where the first bloom of the season was plucked and turned into the legendary Nectar of Eternal Delight, a potion so potent that one sip could make a banshee giggle. At the heart of this festival stood three very particular gnomes: Pip, Poppy, and Gus. They were known throughout the Grove not for their wisdom or generosity, but for their unrivaled talent in causing mayhem. Where there was trouble, there was a gnome-shaped footprint leading to it. “This year, we’re going to be legendary,” Pip declared, adjusting his oversized, rose-colored hat adorned with embroidered daisies. “We’re going to steal the First Bloom!” Poppy, the mastermind of the group, twirled her white beard thoughtfully. “The Blossom Keepers will be watching the tree all night. We’ll need a flawless plan.” Gus, who was currently stuffing his face with honeyed acorn pastries, raised a sticky finger. “What if we... bribe them?” Pip sighed. “Gus, we do not have enough pastries to bribe an entire guild of Keepers.” Poppy grinned. “But what if we make them think they’re needed elsewhere?” That was all it took. With a gleam in their eyes, the gnomes set their plan in motion. The Plan (Which Was Definitely Not Foolproof) At midnight, the Cherry Blossom tree stood tall and resplendent, its petals glowing faintly under the moonlight. The Blossom Keepers, clad in their ceremonial robes (which honestly looked suspiciously like oversized pajamas), stood at attention. No squirrel, fairy, or gnome would get past them. Or so they thought. Phase One: Distraction. Gus, wearing an absurdly large cloak that made him look like a sentient pile of fabric, waddled up to the Keepers. “I have urgent news!” he gasped dramatically. The eldest Keeper peered down. “What news, little one?” “The Moon Moths are revolting! They’re demanding better working conditions and have threatened to, uh, boycott the night sky!” The Keepers blinked. “That... doesn’t sound real.” “Oh, it’s VERY real,” Gus continued, summoning every ounce of fake sincerity he could muster. “Just imagine—no shimmering wings, no graceful moonlit dances. Just an empty sky, like a sad, forgotten soup bowl.” The Keepers exchanged nervous glances. They couldn’t risk a celestial labor strike. With a hurried nod, they rushed off to investigate, leaving the sacred First Bloom unguarded. Phase Two: The Heist With the Keepers gone, Pip and Poppy sprang into action. Pip climbed onto Poppy’s shoulders, teetering dangerously as he reached for the blossom. “Almost... got it...” Just as his fingers brushed the delicate petals, a gust of wind sent him toppling off Poppy’s shoulders and straight into the tree, where he clung like an oversized, panicked squirrel. Poppy, trying to be helpful, grabbed a stick and poked at him. “Just let go, Pip. I’ll catch you.” “That is an unbelievable lie, Poppy.” “Fair enough. Just—” Before she could finish, Pip lost his grip. With a dramatic yelp, he plummeted, bounced off a lower branch, and landed with a soft poof into Gus’s fluffy hat. They sat in stunned silence for a moment. Then Poppy grinned and held up the First Bloom, which had fallen neatly into her hands. “Would you look at that?” Victory! But just as they were about to celebrate, a shadow loomed over them. It was the Head Keeper. And he did not look pleased. “Well, well, well,” the Keeper said, arms crossed. “If it isn’t the Blossom Bandits.” Pip swallowed hard. “We prefer ‘Mischievous Floral Enthusiasts.’” The Keeper narrowed his eyes. “Do you have any idea what kind of punishment is in store for thieves like you?” Silence. Then Gus, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat. “Would you, uh, accept a bribe?” The Keeper raised an eyebrow. “Go on.” Gus pulled a slightly smushed acorn pastry from his pocket and held it out with a hopeful grin. And that was when the real trouble began. The Trouble with Bribes The Head Keeper eyed the smushed acorn pastry in Gus’s outstretched hand. The gnome trio held their breath. For a moment, it seemed like the Keeper might accept the bribe. His fingers twitched. His nostrils flared ever so slightly, catching the scent of honeyed nuts. But then, with a sigh, he crossed his arms. “I’m allergic to acorns,” he said flatly. Gus gasped in horror. “But they’re a superfood!” “For you, perhaps,” the Keeper said. “For me, they’re a death sentence. Now—” He snatched the First Bloom from Poppy’s hands. “You three are in a world of trouble.” The Trial of the Gnomes By dawn, Pip, Poppy, and Gus found themselves standing before the Grand Council of the Enchanted Grove—a collection of elders who looked very wise but also, conveniently, quite sleepy. Apparently, holding a trial at sunrise wasn’t an especially popular idea. “Gnomes Pip, Poppy, and Gus,” droned the eldest Council member, a wrinkled elf named Elder Thimblewick. “You have been charged with grand floral larceny, Keeper deception, and—” he squinted at the scroll in his hands, “—‘reckless tree climbing without a permit.’ How do you plead?” Pip glanced at his friends, then puffed up his chest. “Not guilty, on account of technicality.” Thimblewick frowned. “What technicality?” “The First Bloom fell into Poppy’s hands. Gravity did the real stealing.” The Council murmured amongst themselves. It was, admittedly, a solid point. The Head Keeper, still seething, stepped forward. “I demand justice! They plotted this crime! They tricked the Keepers and endangered the sacred blossom!” Gus cleared his throat. “To be fair, you abandoned your post because of a made-up moth strike. That’s on you.” “Silence!” the Keeper snapped. The Council exchanged glances. Finally, Elder Thimblewick sighed. “This is a mess. But a crime was committed. A punishment is required.” The Unusual Punishment The gnomes braced themselves. Banishment? Hard labor? Were they about to be sentenced to a life of unpaid squirrel-wrangling? Thimblewick cleared his throat. “For your crimes against the Enchanted Grove, your punishment is thus: You must personally assist in the Cherry Blossom Festival preparations.” The gnomes stared. “That’s it?” Pip asked. “You want us to—what—hang banners and sprinkle flower petals?” “Among other things,” Thimblewick said. “You will also oversee the nectar-making process and act as official greeters for every guest.” Poppy groaned. “Ugh. That means smiling, doesn’t it?” Thimblewick nodded. “Oh yes. And wearing matching festive gnome tunics.” At this, Gus let out a horrified gasp. “You mean—uniforms?” “Precisely,” the elder said with a smirk. “Pink ones. With ruffles.” The gnomes shuddered. The Worst Day of Their Lives Thus began the worst—and most humiliating—day in Pip, Poppy, and Gus’s mischievous little lives. First, they were forced into the most frilly, lace-covered, pastel-pink tunics imaginable. Gus nearly fainted. Poppy cursed under her breath. Pip, always the optimist, tried to convince himself they were wearing “intimidation garments.” They were not. Then came the endless festival preparations. They spent the morning filling nectar jugs, which was dull enough—until Gus accidentally fell into a vat of the sacred liquid and had to be fished out with a broom. By noon, they were tasked with handing out floral garlands to visitors. This part should have been easy, except that Pip got carried away and turned it into a competitive sport, aggressively throwing garlands at unsuspecting guests. “YOU GET A WREATH! YOU GET A WREATH!” Pip shouted, pelting a confused centaur in the face with a ring of daisies. By evening, they were utterly exhausted. They slumped against a cherry tree, their once-vibrant tunics now covered in flower petals, spilled nectar, and Gus’s dignity. “I can’t believe we got caught,” Poppy groaned. “We had such a solid plan.” Pip sighed. “Maybe we should retire from crime.” They sat in silence for a long moment. Then Gus snorted. “Nah.” They burst into laughter. Mischief, after all, was in their blood. As the festival continued around them, the three gnomes made a silent pact: Next year, they wouldn’t just steal the First Bloom. They’d steal the whole tree. But for now? They’d suffer through the ruffled tunics, hand out garlands, and bide their time. The gnome way.     Bring the Magic Home Love the mischievous charm of Pip, Poppy, and Gus? Now you can bring their whimsical world into your home! Whether you want to cozy up with a stunning tapestry, add a touch of enchantment with a canvas print, or challenge yourself with a delightful puzzle, there's a perfect way to keep the gnome mischief alive. Looking for a charming gift? Send a magical message with a beautiful greeting card featuring this playful trio! Embrace the whimsy—shop the collection today!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Grumpiest Unicorn-Kitten

The Grumpiest Unicorn-Kitten’s Most Unfortunate Quest Once upon a very irritated time, in a realm where the flowers were too perky, the fairies were too chatty, and the air smelled aggressively like sugared violets, there lived the grumpiest unicorn-kitten ever to grace the land. Her name? Lilith von Fluffenstein. But she preferred "Lilith the Doomed"—because, in her words, "life is suffering, and so is my patience." Her white fur was pristine, her pink-tinged tail swayed with unimpressed authority, and her violet eyes could cut through the soul of anyone who dared to ask, “Who’s a cute little floof?” (The last creature who tried? A sprite named Jingles. He now exclusively communicates in terrified squeaks.) And yet, despite her magnificent disdain for most things, Lilith had a destiny. A prophesied quest. A divine calling that she absolutely did not ask for. The Worst Morning Ever It all began on a particularly infuriating morning, when Lilith awoke to find a scroll wedged between her tiny, majestic paws. A scroll wrapped in gold ribbon and sprinkled with—dear gods—glitter. "Nope." She flicked it off her pillow. Unfortunately, the scroll had other plans. It hovered mid-air and *booped* her grumpy little nose before unrolling itself: "Dearest Lilith von Fluffenstein, The realm of WhimsyWaddle has fallen into chaos! The Sacred Sprinkles have been stolen from the Cupcake Caverns! Without them, the Grand Muffin Mage cannot perform the Annual Sweetening Ritual, and soon all pastries shall turn bland! Bland, Lilith. You are our last hope. Retrieve the Sprinkles. Save the kingdom. Blah blah blah. You get the idea. P.S. This message will self-destruct in three… two…" "Oh for—" POOF! The scroll burst into a puff of vanilla-scented smoke, leaving Lilith covered in sparkles. There was only one thing to do. "I'm going to set something on fire," she muttered, shaking off the offending glitter. Enter: A Moth With Too Much Enthusiasm As Lilith plotted her most efficient route to vengeance—or at least a way to blame someone else for this nonsense—her least favorite being in all the land fluttered into her chamber. "LILITH! OH WOW, LOOK AT YOU! YOU’RE SO SHINY RIGHT NOW!" It was Mothsworth, a sentient, overenthusiastic moth with the attention span of a particularly caffeinated squirrel. "No." Lilith turned away. "No, what?" Mothsworth beamed, his tiny wings flapping with excitement. "No to everything you are about to say." "BUT LILITH!" He zipped around her, his dust-trailing wings leaving streaks of gold in the air. "YOU’VE BEEN CHOSEN FOR A QUEST! AN ADVENTURE! A HEROIC—" "Do you know what I was chosen for, Mothsworth?" Lilith narrowed her glowing violet eyes. "A nap. A peaceful, undisturbed nap. But now, thanks to celestial nonsense, I’m covered in glitter and being forced into some absurd pastry-related crisis." "OH OH OH!" Mothsworth did a mid-air somersault. "THIS IS PERFECT BECAUSE I WAS JUST THINKING THIS KINGDOM NEEDED MORE SPARKLE—" "I am going to eat you," Lilith said flatly. Mothsworth giggled. "YOU'RE SO FUNNY!" Lilith sighed and began padding toward the castle’s exit. "Fine. If I have to do this, I’m doing it my way. That means no singing, no clapping, and absolutely no heartwarming character growth." "OOOH, YOU’RE SO EDGY!" She flicked her tail. "Edgy gets things done, Mothsworth. Now, let’s go steal back some sprinkles before my patience crumbles like a week-old biscuit." And with that, the grumpiest unicorn-kitten stomped off into the unknown, a reluctant hero on a most unfortunate journey. A Totally Avoidable Detour Lilith trudged through the Twinkling Thicket with all the enthusiasm of a cat being forced into a holiday sweater. Mothsworth, as expected, was being the absolute worst. “LILITH, THIS IS AMAZING! THE STARS ARE SO BRIGHT! THE AIR IS SO FRESH! THE MAGIC IS SO—” “Do you ever shut up?” Lilith grumbled, shoving a glowing flower out of her way. “NOPE! NOT EVEN ONCE! DO YOU THINK THAT’S A PROBLEM? SOMEONE TOLD ME IT’S A PROBLEM, BUT I THINK—” “Mothsworth.” Lilith stopped and turned to him, her violet eyes darkening. “You are one sentence away from being personally responsible for the first recorded case of ‘moth-based homicide.’” He blinked. “DID YOU JUST THREATEN TO KILL ME?” “What? No. You’d just respawn somewhere annoying.” She sighed. “Now, can we please focus? We need to get to the Cupcake Caverns, steal back the Sacred Sprinkles, and get out before I lose what little faith I have in the universe.” “GOT IT! NO MORE DISTRACTIONS!” Thirty-seven seconds later, they were thoroughly distracted. “Mothsworth,” Lilith growled as she dangled upside down from a very suspiciously sentient vine, “do you want to explain to me why, instead of following the Very Clearly Labeled Path, we are currently being strangled by a plant?” “BECAUSE LOOK AT THIS ADORABLE LITTLE SIGN!” Mothsworth flailed his tiny wings, pointing to a wooden post. The sign, written in looping golden letters, read: “TOTALLY NOT A TRAP! FREE CUPCAKES THIS WAY!” “It literally says ‘totally not a trap,’” Lilith deadpanned. “WHICH MEANS IT PROBABLY WASN’T A TRAP UNTIL WE GOT HERE, RIGHT?” “I hate you.” The Argument That Saved Their Lives “Excuse me.” A gravelly voice interrupted their bickering. “Would you two mind screaming a little less? I’m trying to enjoy my afternoon tea.” Lilith twisted in the vine’s grip to get a better look at their captor. It was a giant carnivorous plant. With a monocle. The plant sighed and took a dainty sip from an extremely tiny porcelain teacup. “You know, back in the day, travelers had the decency to tremble before me. But no. Now it’s all sarcasm and attitude.” “Look, buddy,” Lilith said, flicking her tail, “you’re a talking plant with an accessory budget. I respect that. But do you really want to eat us?” The plant hesitated. “Well… I do like the dramatic ones.” “Let’s be honest. I’d taste like existential dread and misplaced aggression.” Mothsworth chimed in. “AND I’D TASTE LIKE SUGAR AND GLITTER!” The plant considered this. “Hmmm. Glitter is terrible for digestion.” “Exactly,” Lilith said. “Let us go, and I promise we’ll tell everyone you’re still very terrifying.” The plant huffed. “Fine. But next time, at least pretend to be scared.” With a flick of its leafy appendage, the vine released them. Lilith landed on all fours with an elegant *plop*. Mothsworth face-planted. “You’re the worst hero,” the plant muttered as it slithered back into the ground. The Cupcake Caverns By the time they arrived at the Cupcake Caverns, Lilith was out of patience, out of energy, and dangerously close to committing her first (and probably not last) act of pastry-related arson. The cavern itself was magnificent. Walls of golden caramel, chandeliers made of spun sugar, and a floor that smelled suspiciously like buttercream. But at the center of it all, atop a pedestal made of waffle cone, sat a small, glowing jar. The Sacred Sprinkles. And guarding them? A creature so utterly ridiculous that even Lilith had to take a moment to process it. A dragon. A dragon made entirely of… marshmallow fluff. “Oh, for the love of—” Lilith pinched the bridge of her tiny pink nose. “I am so tired.” The dragon yawned, stretching its gooey wings. “WHO DARES DISTURB—oh, it’s just a cat.” “Excuse me.” Lilith’s tail bristled. “I am a unicorn-kitten. There is a difference.” “Sure.” The dragon shrugged, sending a ripple through its marshmallow body. “And I am the Grand Protector of All That Is Sweet.” “Are you, though?” Lilith squinted. “Because you look like something I could spread on toast.” The dragon huffed. “RUDE.” “Yeah, yeah. Listen, here’s how this is gonna go.” Lilith stretched her paws. “You let me take the sprinkles, and I don’t roast you over an open fire.” The dragon snorted. “I’m immune to fire.” Lilith smirked. “Not magical fire.” She flicked her tail, and a very small but very determined spark of unicorn magic ignited at her horn’s tip. The dragon gulped. “Fine,” it grumbled, stepping aside. “But I hope your kingdom enjoys their diabetes.” Lilith grabbed the sprinkles, tossed them into her satchel, and turned on her heel. “Come on, Mothsworth. Let’s get out of here before I develop a real personality disorder.” And with that, the world’s grumpiest unicorn-kitten saved the kingdom. By accident. And under protest. THE END.     Bring Lilith’s Sass Into Your World Do you need more grumpy magic in your life? Now you can own a piece of Lilith von Fluffenstein’s unimpressed glory! Whether you want to decorate your space, carry her attitude with you, or send some snark to a friend, we’ve got you covered. ✨ Tapestries – Cover your walls in fluffy rage. 🖼️ Canvas Prints – Frame her disapproval for all to see. 👜 Tote Bags – Carry your stuff with maximum attitude. 💌 Greeting Cards – Send a little grumpiness with love. Because let’s be honest—life is better with a little sass and a lot of fluff. Grab yours today and let Lilith judge your life choices from the comfort of your own home! 😾✨

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Old Magic and Stale Ale

The Pint of No Return Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae was having a day. A long, painful, gods-forsaken kind of day. The kind of day that made him question why he ever bothered getting out of his moss-covered bed. His wings, once shimmering gold and translucent like the morning dew, now looked like someone had used them to wipe up a particularly messy bar brawl. His tunic, which had probably been green in some distant past, was now a patchwork of ale stains, mud, and the occasional mysterious substance that he didn’t care to investigate. And worst of all? His beer was too damn foamy. “For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, watching as another dollop of foam dribbled over the side of his wooden mug and plopped onto his bare foot. “Is it too much to ask for a proper pour? This is why I drink at home.” The bartender, a willowy dryad with an attitude as thorny as her ivy-wrapped arms, rolled her eyes. “You don’t have a home, Gorbwick. You have a tree stump that smells like regret.” “A tree stump is a home if you believe hard enough.” He took a long, slow sip of his ale, glaring at the world as if it had personally wronged him. Which, to be fair, it had. Once upon a time, he had been a trickster, a legend, a mischievous little shit whose name was whispered in taverns with a mixture of awe and irritation. Now? Now he was just the cranky bastard who never tipped. And that, dear gods, was unacceptable. “You know what?” he said suddenly, slamming his mug down on the counter. “I’m done with this. Done with the self-pity, the sitting around, the endless fucking drinking—” “You literally started today with a breakfast beer,” the dryad pointed out. “—Done, I say!” Gorbwick continued, ignoring her. “It’s time for a comeback.” “Oh no.” “Oh yes.” He stood up dramatically. At least, he tried. His left leg had fallen asleep, and instead of rising like a victorious warrior, he wobbled like a drunken goat. The dryad sighed. “You’re going to embarrass yourself.” “That’s how all the best stories start.” And with that, Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae, washed-up legend, set out on a grand new adventure—the first step of which was, of course, stumbling over a root and landing face-first in the dirt. The comeback was off to a fantastic start. A Fae, a Fool, and a Fistful of Bad Decisions Gorbwick peeled his face off the dirt with all the grace of a snail getting evicted from its shell. He spat out a mouthful of moss, muttered a curse that made a nearby squirrel cover its ears, and staggered to his feet. The comeback was still on. “Where the hell are you even going?” the dryad bartender called after him. “Adventure, my dear Twigs, adventure!” he shouted over his shoulder. Her actual name was Lissandra, but Gorbwick had been calling her Twigs for years, mostly because it annoyed the absolute shit out of her. “Well, at least let me get you some pants first!” she yelled. Gorbwick glanced down. Ah. That explained the draft. “No time! The wind shall cradle my nethers like a gentle lover!” “You’re gonna get arrested.” “Only if I get caught!” With that, he stumbled deeper into the forest, barefoot, pantless, and fueled by equal parts determination and whatever questionable liquor still sloshed around his gut. His goal? He had no idea. His strategy? None. His plan? Absolute nonsense. And that’s when he walked straight into the Goblin Mafia. A Poorly Timed Introduction Now, goblins are many things—shrewd, ugly, a little too enthusiastic about stabbing—but they were also businessmen. And business, on this particular evening, was going down in a clearing just past Gorbwick’s favorite piss-tree. Unfortunately, Gorbwick did not know this. Because Gorbwick, despite his magical heritage, was not what anyone would call “observant.” “Well, well, well,” drawled a greasy voice from the shadows. “Look what we got here.” Gorbwick blinked. Five goblins stood before him, dressed in ragged vests, fingerless gloves, and the kind of trousers that screamed, “I live in a hole but want to look professional.” At their feet were wooden crates labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH OR YOU WILL BE STABBED’—a very specific warning. The lead goblin stepped forward. He had a face like a pug that had lost a fistfight and a permanent sneer that suggested he didn’t particularly like his own existence. “You lost, fairy boy?” Gorbwick dusted himself off, doing his best to stand tall despite the fact that he was very obviously half-dressed and covered in dirt. “I, good sirs, am not lost! I am merely… uh… assessing the perimeter.” The goblins looked at each other. “What?” “You know. Scouting.” “For who?” “…Future me.” The pug-faced goblin, whom Gorbwick now mentally named Squintsy, narrowed his beady eyes. “You a cop?” Gorbwick snorted. “Do I look like a cop?” Another goblin, this one with a tooth so long it curved over his bottom lip, leaned in. “Kinda, yeah.” “Oh, piss off.” Gorbwick sighed and crossed his arms. “Look, I don’t know what you little shits are smuggling, but I’m not here to mess with your business. I’m on an adventure.” “An adventure.” Squintsy deadpanned. “Yes.” “And you just happened to walk into our highly illegal, very secret deal?” “Yes.” “With no pants?” “…Yes.” The goblins mulled this over. Finally, Squintsy sighed and rubbed his face. “Okay. We’re gonna have to kill you.” Gorbwick threw up his hands. “Oh, come on. That’s excessive.” “Rules are rules.” “Can’t you just, I don’t know, kick me in the shin and call it a day?” “Nah, see, we’ve got a reputation to maintain.” “Oh, for fuck’s sake—” Before Gorbwick could finish, there was a loud crash. A wooden crate burst open, spilling its contents everywhere. Glittering, shimmering, bouncing contents. Pixie dust. Loads of it. A Brilliantly Terrible Idea Every goblin froze. Pixie dust was a tricky thing. In small doses, it could make you light on your feet. In moderate doses, it could make you float. But in high doses? It could turn an entire bar fight into a floating, screaming disaster. Gorbwick grinned. “No,” Squintsy said immediately. “No. Don’t even think about it.” Too late. Gorbwick lunged, grabbing two fistfuls of stolen pixie dust and launching himself backward, throwing the sparkling powder into the air like a deranged carnival performer. Chaos. One goblin shot straight into the tree canopy, screaming bloody murder. Another spun in midair, flailing as if he were trying to swim through honey. Squintsy, who had clearly been through this shit before, just sighed and let himself hover two feet off the ground. Gorbwick? Gorbwick rocketed up like a fucking firework. “WOOHOOOOO!” The world became a blur of treetops and moonlight as he spiraled uncontrollably through the sky. His wings, pathetic as they were, fluttered uselessly against the sheer force of pixie-fueled propulsion. Somewhere below, Squintsy’s voice echoed through the forest: “I hate fairies.” Gorbwick didn’t care. He was flying! He was free! He was— Oh. Oh no. He was losing altitude. “Oh, sh—” Gravity kicked back in like a pissed-off landlord, and Gorbwick plummeted toward the ground. He crashed through a tree, smacked into a branch, tumbled through a bush, and finally landed— —right back at the tavern’s doorstep. Lissandra the Dryad looked down at him. “So. How’d the ‘adventure’ go?” Gorbwick groaned. “I need another beer.” “Told you.” And with that, the grand comeback of Gorbwick the Grumpy Fae ended exactly where it began—on his ass, in the dirt, with a desperate need for alcohol.     Take a Piece of Gorbwick’s Grumpy Glory Home Love Gorbwick's cranky, chaotic energy? Bring a bit of his misadventure into your space with Old Magic and Stale Ale—available as high-quality tapestries, canvas prints, tote bags, and even throw pillows for the ultimate fae-approved lounging. Perfect for lovers of fantasy, humor, and a touch of grumpy goblin magic, these unique pieces are a must-have for any adventurer—whether you're stumbling through a forest or just trying to survive another Monday. Shop now and let Gorbwick’s legendary attitude take up residence in your home!