Le rieur farceur de la nature

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Sunlit Shenanigans

There are fae who tend gardens. There are fae who weave dreams. And then there’s Fennella Bramblebite—whose main contributions to the Seelie realm are chaotic giggling fits, midair moonings, and an alarming number of forest-wide “misunderstandings” that always, mysteriously, involve flaming fruit and nudity. Fennella, with her wild braid-forest of red hair and a nose as freckled as a speckled toadstool, was not your average sylvan enchantress. While most fae flitted about with dewdrop tiaras and flowery poetry, Fennella spent her mornings teaching mushrooms to curse and her afternoons impersonating royalty in stolen acorn hats. Which is exactly how she came to adopt a dragon. “Adopt” may be too generous a word. Technically, she’d accidentally lured him out of his egg with a sausage roll, mistaken him for a very aggressive garden lizard, and then named him Sizzlethump before he even had the chance to incinerate her left eyebrow. He was small—about the size of a corgi with wings—and always smelled faintly of smoke and cinnamon. His scales shimmered with flickers of ember and sunset, and his favorite pastimes included torching laundry lines and pretending to be a neck scarf. But today… today was special. Fennella had planned a picnic. Not just any picnic, mind you, but a nude sunbathing-and-honeycake extravaganza in the Grove of Slightly Disreputable Nymphs. She had even invited the squirrel militia—though they still hadn’t forgiven her for the “cursed nuts incident of spring.” “Now behave,” she hissed at Sizzlethump as she unrolled the enchanted gingham cloth that hissed when touched by ants. “No flaming the butter. No eating the spoons. And for the love of moonbeams, do not pretend the elderberry wine is bathwater again.” The dragon, in response, licked her ear, snorted a smoke ring in the shape of a rude gesture, and settled across her shoulder like a smug, fire-breathing mink. They were five bites into the honeycakes (and three questionable licks into something that might have been a toad pie) when Fennella felt it—a presence. Something looming. Watching. Judging. It was Ainsleif. “Oh gnatballs,” she muttered, eyes narrowing. Ainsleif of the Mosscloaks. The Most Uptight of the Forest Stewards. His hair was combed. His wings were folded correctly. He looked like the inside of a rulebook. And worst of all, he had paperwork. Rolled parchment. In triplicate. “Fennella Bramblebite,” he intoned, as if invoking an ancient curse. “You are hereby summoned to appear before the Council of Leaf and Spore on charges of spontaneous combustion, suspicious pastry distribution, and inappropriate use of glimmerweed in public spaces.” Fennella stood, arms akimbo, wearing only a necklace made of candy thorns and a questionable grin. Sizzlethump burped something that made a nearby fern catch fire. “Is that today?” she asked innocently. “Oopsie blossom.” And thus, with a flap of wings and the smell of smoldering scones, the fairy and her dragon friend were off to stand trial… for crimes they almost definitely committed, possibly while tipsy, and absolutely without regrets. Fennella arrived at the Council of Leaf and Spore the same way she did everything in life: fashionably late, dubiously clothed, and covered in confectioner’s sugar. The great mushroom hall—a sacred, ancient seat of forest governance—stood in utter silence as she crash-landed through the upper window, having been flung by a catapult built entirely from discarded spiderwebs, cattail reeds, and the shattered dreams of serious people. “NAILED IT!” she hollered, still upside down, legs tangled in a vine chandelier. “Do I get extra points for entrance flair or just the concussion?” The crowd of fae elders and woodland officials didn’t even blink. They’d seen worse. Once, a brownie attorney combusted just from sitting in the same seat Fennella now wiggled into. But today… today they were bracing themselves for a verbal hurricane with dragon side-effects. Sizzlethump waddled in behind her, dragging a suitcase that had burst open somewhere in flight, leaving a breadcrumb trail of burnt marshmallows, dragon socks, two left shoes, and something that might have been an enchanted fart in a jar (still bubbling ominously). High Elder Thistledown—a weepy-eyed creature shaped vaguely like a sentient celery stalk—sighed deeply, his leafy robes rustling with despair. “Fennella,” he said gravely, “this is your seventeenth appearance before the council in three moon cycles.” “Eighteen,” she corrected brightly. “You forgot the time I was sleep-haunting a bakery. That one hardly counts—I was unconscious and horny for strudel.” “Your crimes,” continued Thistledown, ignoring her, “include, but are not limited to: weaponizing bee song, unlicensed dream vending, impersonating a tree for sexual gain, and summoning a phantasmal raccoon in the shape of your ex-boyfriend.” “He started it,” she muttered. “Said my feet smelled like goblin tears.” Sizzlethump, now perched on the ceremonial scroll pedestal, belched a flame that turned the parchment to crisps, then sneezed on a nearby gavel, melting it into a very decorative puddle. “AND,” Thistledown said, voice rising, “allowing your dragon to exhale a message across the sky that said, quote: ‘LICK MY GLITTERS, COUNCIL NERDS.’” Fennella snorted. “That was supposed to say ‘LOVE AND LOLLIPOPS.’ He’s still learning calligraphy.”     Enter: The Prosecutor. To the surprise of everyone (and the dismay of some), the prosecutor was Gnimbel Fungusfist, a gnome so small he needed a soapbox to be seen above the podium—and so bitter he’d once banned music in a five-mile radius after hearing a harp he didn’t like. “The defendant,” Gnimbel rasped, eyes narrowed beneath tiny spectacles, “has repeatedly violated Article 27 of the Mischief Ordinance. She has no respect for magical regulation, personal space, or basic hygiene. I present as evidence... this underwear.” He held up a suspiciously scorched pair of bloomers with a daisy stitched on the butt. Fennella clapped. “My missing Tuesday pair! You glorious little fungus! I’ve missed you!” The courtroom gasped. One dryad fainted. An owl barrister choked on his gavel. But Fennella wasn’t done. “I move to countersue the entire council,” she declared, climbing on the table, “for crimes against fashion, joy, and possessing the tightest fairy holes known to civilization.” “You mean loopholes?” Thistledown asked, eyes wide with horror. “I do not,” she replied solemnly. At that moment, Sizzlethump unleashed a sneezing fit so powerful he scorched the banners, singed the warden’s beard, and accidentally set loose the captive whispers held in the Evidence Urn. Dozens of scandalous secrets began fluttering through the air like invisible bats, shrieking things like “Thistledown fakes his leaf shine!” and “Gnimbel uses toe extensions!” The courtroom dissolved into chaos. Fairies shrieked. Gremlins brawled. Someone summoned a squid. It was not clear why. And in the midst of it all, Fennella and her dragon grinned at each other like two pyromaniacs who’d just discovered a fresh box of matches. They bolted for the exit, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. But before leaving, Fennella turned, dramatically flinging a pouch of cinnamon glitter over her shoulder. “See you next equinox, nerdlings!” she cackled. “Don’t forget to moisturize your roots!” With that, the pair shot into the sky, Sizzlethump belching little heart-shaped fireballs while Fennella shrieked with delight and a lack of underpants. They didn’t know where they were going. But chaos, snacks, and probably another misdemeanor awaited. Three hours after being chased from the Council in a cloud of weaponized gossip and molted scroll ash, Fennella and Sizzlethump found themselves in a cave made entirely of jellybeans and regret. “This,” she said, peering around with hands on hips and nose twitching, “was not the portal I was aiming for.” The jellybean cave groaned ominously. From the ceiling dripped slow, thick droplets of butterscotch sap. A mushroom nearby whistled the theme to a soap opera. Something in the corner burped in iambic pentameter. “Ten out of ten. Would trespass again,” she whispered, and gave Sizzlethump a piece of peppermint bark she’d smuggled in her bra. They wandered for what felt like hours through the sticky surrealist sugar hellscape, dodging licorice spiders and sentient mints, before finally emerging into the moonstruck valley of Glimmerloch—a place so magical that unicorns came there to get high and forget their responsibilities. “You know,” Fennella murmured as she flopped onto a grassy knoll, Sizzlethump curling up beside her, “I think they’ll be after us for a while this time.” The dragon gave a tiny snort, eyes half-closed, and let out a rumble that vibrated the moss beneath them. It sounded like “worth it.”     The Council, however, was not so easily done. Three days later, Fennella’s hiding place was discovered—not by a battalion of armored pixies or an elite tracker warg, but by Bartholomew. Bartholomew was a faerie rat. And not a noble rat or a rat of legend. No, this was the type of rat who sold his mother for a half-stale biscuit and who wore a monocle made from a bent bottlecap. “Council wants ya,” he wheezed, waddling through a carpet of forget-me-nots like a walrus through whipped cream. “Big deal. They’re talkin’ banishment. Like, full-fling outta the Queendom.” Fennella blinked. “They wouldn’t. I’m a cornerstone of the cultural ecosystem. I once singlehandedly rebooted winter solstice fashion with edible earmuffs.” Bartholomew scratched himself with a twig and said, “Yeah, but yer dragon melted the Moon Buns’ fertility altar. You kinda toasted a sacred womb rock.” “Okay, in our defense,” she said slowly, “Sizzlethump thought it was a spicy egg.” Sizzlethump, overhearing, offered a hiccup of remorse that smelled strongly of roasted thyme and mild guilt. His wings drooped. Fennella ruffled his horn. “Don’t let them guilt you, nugget. You’re the best mistake I’ve ever kidnapped.” Bartholomew wheezed. “There’s a loophole. But it’s dumb. Really dumb.” Fennella lit up like a torchbug on espresso. “My favorite kind of plan. Hit me.” “You do the Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff,” he muttered. “It’s... sort of a performance thing? Public trial by satire. If you can entertain the spirits of the Elder Mischief, they’ll pardon you. If you fail, they trap your soul in a punch bowl.” “Been there,” she said brightly. “I survived it and came out with a new eyebrow and a boyfriend.” “The punch bowl?” “No, the trial.”     And so it was set. The Trial of Shenanigan’s Bluff took place at midnight under a sky so full of stars it looked like a bejeweled bedsheet shaken by a drunk deity. The audience consisted of dryads, disgruntled town gnomes, one spectral hedgehog, three flamingos in drag, and the entire squirrel militia—still wearing tiny helmets and carrying grudge nuts. The Elders of Mischief appeared, rising from mists made of giggles and fermented tea. They were ancient prankster spirits, their bodies swirled from smoke and old rumors, their eyes glinting like jack-o’-lanterns full of dirty jokes. “We are here to judge,” they thundered in unison. “Amuse us, or perish in the bowl of eternal mediocrity.” Fennella stepped forward, wings flared, dress covered in potion-stained ribbons and gumdrop armor. “Oh beloved prankpappies,” she began, “you want a show? I’ll give you a bloody cabaret.” And she did. She reenacted the Great Glimmerpants Explosion of ’86 using only interpretive dance and marmots. She recited scandalous haikus about High Elder Thistledown’s love life. She got a nymph to fake faint, a squirrel to fake propose, and Sizzlethump to perform a fire-breathing tap dance on stilts while wearing tiny lederhosen. By the time it ended, the audience was weeping from laughter, the Elders were floating upside down from glee, and the punch bowl was full of wine instead of souls. “You,” the lead spirit gasped, trying not to laugh-snort, “are absolutely unfit for banishment.” “Thank you,” Fennella said, curtsying so deeply her skirt revealed a birthmark shaped like a rude fairy. “Instead,” the spirit continued, “we appoint you as our new Emissary of Wild Mischief. You will spread absurdity, ignite joy, and keep the Realm weird.” Fennella gasped. “You want me... to make everything worse... professionally?” “Yes.” “AND I GET TO KEEP THE DRAGON?” “Yes!” She screamed. Sizzlethump belched glitter flames. The squirrel militia passed out from overstimulation.     Epilogue Fennella Bramblebite is now a semi-official agent of gleeful chaos. Her crimes are now considered “cultural enrichment.” Her dragon has his own fan club. And her name is whispered in reverent awe by pranksters, tricksters, and midnight troublemakers in every corner of the Fae Queendom. Sometimes, when the moon is right and the air smells faintly of burnt toast and sarcasm, you can see her fly by—hair streaming behind her, dragon clinging to her shoulder, both of them laughing like fools who know that mischief is sacred and friendship is the weirdest kind of magic.     Want to bring a little wild mischief into your world? You can own a piece of “Sunlit Shenanigans” and keep the chaos close at hand—or at least on your wall, your tote, or even your cozy nap blanket. Whether you’re a fae of impeccable taste or a dragon hoarder of fine things, this whimsical artwork is now available in a variety of forms: Wood Print – Rustic charm for your mischief sanctuary Framed Print – For those who prefer their chaos elegantly contained Tote Bag – Carry your dragon snacks and questionable potions in style Fleece Blanket – For warm snuggles after a long day of magical misdemeanors Spiral Notebook – Jot down your best pranks and potion recipes Click, claim, and channel your inner Bramblebite—no Council approval required.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene

The Gums of War In the majestic realm of Gingivaria—a place tragically overlooked by most fantasy cartographers—dragons weren’t known for their hoards or fiery wrath. No, they were known for their halitosis. The kind that could melt faces faster than their actual flame breath. The kind that left a streak of singed eyebrows in its wake. The kind that made even trolls retch and cry, “Dear gods, is that anchovy?” Enter Fizzwhistle Junebug, a winged dental hygienist with a vengeance. She was petite, sparkly, and meaner than a tax audit. Her wings shimmered in irritated gold whenever someone said, “Fairy dust solves everything.” Her toothbrush? An industrial-grade wand forged in the Molars of Mount Munch. Her mission? To tame the worst dental case in all seven realms: Greg. Greg the dragon had many titles: Scourge of Skincare, Flamey the Flatulent, Baron of the Bicuspid Apocalypse. But most knew him simply as The Breath of Doom. Villagers no longer brought sacrifices—they brought mints. Bards refused to sing of his deeds until they invented rhymes for “decay” and “oral swamp.” Greg didn’t mind. He was perfectly content gnawing on boulders and basking in the solitude of people running in the opposite direction. Until Fizzwhistle flew into his cave one dewy Tuesday morning with a clipboard and a peppermint aura. “Gregory?” she chirped, somehow sounding both chipper and ready to commit murder. “I’m with the Enchanted Oral Order. You’ve been reported… seven hundred and sixty-two times for olfactory assault. It’s time.” Greg blinked. One eye. Then the other. He was halfway through a mouthful of charcoal briquettes. “Time for what?” he rumbled, a cloud of greenish horror seeping from his mouth like a fog of forgotten sins. Fizzwhistle donned aviator goggles, clicked a button on her wand, and extended it into a dual-action, enchanted toothbrush-flossing lance. “Time,” she said, “for your first cleaning.” The scream that followed echoed through five valleys, startled a herd of centaurs into a synchronized can-can, and permanently curled the leaves of the Whimpering Woods. The Plaqueening Greg did not come quietly. He howled. He thrashed. He gnawed the air like a feral toddler teething on thunder. And yet, despite all this prehistoric drama, Fizzwhistle Junebug hovered with the dead-eyed calm of someone who’s flossed the teeth of mountain trolls while they snored. She waited, mid-air, wings buzzing faintly, wand-brush at the ready, sipping from a travel-sized espresso chalice that read: “Don’t Make Me Use The Mint.” “Done?” she asked after the third cave stalactite crumbled from Greg’s banshee roar. “No.” Greg grunted, curling his massive tail protectively around his snout. “You can’t make me. I have rights. I’m a majestic, ancient being. I’m on several tapestries.” “You’re also a public health crisis,” she replied. “Open wide, Sir Fumebreath.” “Why does it smell like burning cucumbers when I burp?” “That’s your tonsils waving a white flag.” Greg sighed, smoke curling out of his nostrils. Somewhere in the back of his prehistoric brain, the tiniest speck of shame flickered. Not that he’d ever admit it. Dragons don’t do shame. They do rage, naps, and existential ennui. But as Fizzwhistle cracked her knuckles and activated the sonic floss attachment, Greg realized that maybe—just maybe—he was not okay. “Okay, ground rules,” he growled. “No touching the uvula. That thing’s sensitive.” Fizzwhistle rolled her eyes. “Please. I’ve flossed krakens. Your uvula’s a powder puff.” And so it began. The Great Cleaning. First came the rinse: a cauldron of enchanted water infused with mint, moonlight, and a hint of cinnamon broom. Greg sputtered and foamed like a broken cappuccino machine. He belched a bubble that floated away, popped midair, and turned a squirrel into a barista. Then came the scaling. Fizzwhistle zipped between his teeth, lance vibrating, scraping decades of fossilized meat goo from his molars. Out came a knight’s helmet, two ox bones, a whole wheel of ghost cheese (still screaming), and what appeared to be the skeletal remains of a bard holding a tiny lute. Greg blinked. “So that’s where Harold went.” Fizzwhistle didn’t stop. She whirred. She buffed. She flossed with the fury of someone who had been left on read one too many times. And all the while, Greg sat there, his tongue dangling out like a defeated dog’s, whimpering. “Do you enjoy this?” he mumbled, half-choking on a minty glob of magical foam. “Immensely,” she grinned, wiping sweat from her brow with a disinfected lavender towel. Midway through quadrant three (left bicuspid zone), Greg coughed up a toothpick the size of a javelin and murmured, “This feels… oddly intimate.” Fizzwhistle paused. Hovered. Cocked her head sideways. “You ever had anyone care enough to scrape out your tartar, Greg?” “…no.” “Well, congrats. This is either love or professional stubbornness. Possibly both.” He blinked slowly. “Do you do tail scales too?” “That’s extra,” she deadpanned. Time slipped sideways. Light filtered in from the edge of the cave mouth in a hazy, post-cleanse glow. Greg’s teeth sparkled like cursed sapphires. His gums—formerly a toxic swamp of regret and regret sandwiches—now shone with the healthy blush of a creature who had finally seen a toothbrush. Fizzwhistle dropped into a seated hover, wand cooling in its holster. “Well. That’s done.” “I feel… light,” Greg said, opening his mouth and exhaling. A flock of nearby birds did not fall dead from the sky. Flowers did not immediately wither. A nearby tree actually perked up. “I feel like I could go to a brunch.” “Don’t push it,” she muttered. Greg sat in stunned silence, sniffing at his own breath like a dog discovering peanut butter. “I’m minty.” “You’re welcome.” Fizzwhistle tucked her gear back into her satchel, now clinking with extracted plaque crystals and some extra treasure she “accidentally” picked up from the hoard. Greg didn’t notice. He was too busy smiling—an act that, for the first time, did not cause a thunderclap or spontaneous nosebleeds in nearby villagers. “Hey, Fizz?” he said, his voice awkward and rumbly. “Would you maybe… come back? Like next week? Just to, you know, check the molars?” Fizzwhistle smirked. “We’ll see. Depends if you floss.” Greg's face fell. “What’s floss?” A Mint Condition Relationship The following week, Greg flossed using a pine tree and a suspiciously bendy wizard. It wasn’t effective, but the effort was there. Fizzwhistle returned, reluctantly impressed. She arrived with a toolbox of enchanted dental gear and the wary eyes of a woman who wasn’t sure whether this was a follow-up cleaning or an accidental date. “I even rinsed,” Greg offered proudly, mistaking a bucket of rainwater for mouthwash. He’d added crushed snowberries for flavor. He gagged. But he did it. Fizzwhistle raised an eyebrow. “You used the berries that scream when picked?” “It seemed festive.” “They’re also mildly hallucinogenic. Don’t eat your own tail for the next hour.” Despite the chaos, something had shifted. Greg didn’t flinch when she hovered near his canines. He even smiled—without weaponizing it. Birds didn’t scatter. Trees didn’t ignite. The world stayed mostly intact, which in Greg’s case was emotional growth. After his third appointment (he was now on a plan), Greg did something unthinkable. He made tea. He boiled water with his breath, steeped herbs from the Whispering Glade, and served it in a tea set he accidentally stole from a gnome wedding two centuries ago. Fizzwhistle, suspicious but curious, accepted. She even sipped. It wasn’t terrible. “I’ve never hosted tea before,” Greg admitted, fidgeting with his tail. “Usually I just incinerate guests.” “This is slightly more charming,” she said. “Also less murdery.” They sipped. They chatted. Topics ranged from dental horror stories to Greg’s brief but dramatic stint as a backup dancer in the Goblin Opera. She laughed. He blushed. Somewhere, a unicorn sneezed glitter and nobody knew why. The visits became routine. Weekly cleanings turned into bi-weekly brunches. Greg started brushing daily with a house-sized bristle brush mounted to a siege tower. Fizzwhistle installed a flossing polearm near the stalactites. She even left behind a magically singing toothbrush named Cheryl who kept yelling, “SCRUB THOSE MOLARS, YOU FILTHY KING!” every morning at sunrise. It was oddly romantic. Not in a “let’s hold hands under moonlight” kind of way, but in the “I scrape barnacles off your gums because I respect you” kind of way. Which, in Gingivaria, was basically a proposal. One day, as they flew together over the Sparkling Ridge (Fizzwhistle clinging to Greg’s neck spike with a picnic basket strapped to her back), he asked, “Do you think it’s weird?” “What? The fact that I clean your teeth with a glowing spear and also bring you croissants?” “That… and maybe the feelings part.” Fizzwhistle looked ahead, past the shimmering clouds and the distant spires of Gingivaria’s Capital of Canker, and said, “Greg, I’ve cleaned between your molars. There is no going back from that level of emotional intimacy.” Greg rumbled a soft laugh that only incinerated a small shrub. Progress. They landed on a cliff edge, laid out their brunch, and watched a pair of thunderbirds dance across the horizon. Greg delicately munched on a charcoal scone (recipe courtesy of Cheryl the toothbrush). Fizzwhistle nibbled a cloudberry tart and sipped a flask of wine that sang Gregorian chants in the key of gingivitis. “So…” Greg said, tail twitching nervously. “I was thinking of adding a second toothbrush tower. For guests. You know. If you ever wanted to… stay?” Fizzwhistle choked slightly on her tart. “Are you asking me to move in?” “Well. Only if you want to. And maybe if we survive your mom’s reaction. And if Cheryl doesn’t object. She’s gotten… territorial.” Fizzwhistle stared at him. This ancient, terrifying, plaque-producing beast with a now-brilliant smile and a secret weakness for honey tea. She wiped tart crumbs from her lip, adjusted her wing cuff, and said: “I’d be delighted, Greg. On one condition.” “Anything.” “You floss. With actual floss. Not wizards.” Greg grumbled but nodded. “Deal. Can we still use gnomes as mouthwash?” “Only if they volunteer.” And so they lived—mintily, sassily, and ever after—in a dragon’s lair turned open-plan dental spa. Word spread. Creatures from all corners of the land flocked to Gingivaria not to battle a beast, but to book an appointment. Fizzwhistle opened a boutique. Greg became the poster child for reformed dragon breath. Their love was weird. Their brunches legendary. Their plaque? Nonexistent. Because in the end, even the most fearsome monsters deserve someone who cares enough to clean their teeth, love their bad habits, and gently whisper, “You missed a spot, babe.”     Want to bring a little mythical mischief into your home? This magical moment between Greg and Fizzwhistle is available as a print, puzzle, tumbler, and more. Explore "How to Tame Your Dragon’s Dental Hygiene" in glorious detail through high-quality merchandise and fine art prints at Unfocussed Archive. Add a touch of enchanted chaos to your walls—or your morning coffee routine.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Tea With a Twist of Madness

Welcome to the Unhinged Hour The teacup trembled in his hand, but not from age or tremor. Oh no, that wasn’t his style. This was deliberate—an invitation. A shivering clink of porcelain against porcelain, timed to the second, meant to drive anyone listening just a little more bonkers. He grinned, blood dribbling neatly from the corner of his mouth like raspberry jam from a cracked scone. “Darling, do come in,” he purred. “We’re just one scone short of a psychotic episode.” Her name was Maple. Not that it mattered. He had already renamed her in his head: Spoonette. She had the precise amount of judgmental eyebrow and unseasoned curiosity that made her the perfect guest. Human enough to ask why the sandwiches were whispering. Dull enough to eat them anyway. The Mad Hatter—though he preferred 'Sir Hatsalot the Unbalanced'—flourished one gangly arm toward a seat upholstered in mismatched socks. “Sit, sit! The tea won’t murder itself.” Maple hesitated. The chair burped. She sat anyway. “Now then,” he said, plopping down across from her with the elegance of a flung marionette. “Tell me what brings you to the edge of reason, across the river of sanity, and into my dribble-stained garden of demented delight?” He poured from a teapot shaped like a screaming frog, red liquid splashing into her cup with the viscosity of regret. “And before you ask—yes, it is tea. Technically. Spiritually.” Maple opened her mouth. Closed it. Decided nodding was safer. He sipped theatrically, smearing crimson across his chin. His teeth gleamed like porcelain gravestones. “Oh, she’s clever,” he whispered to the cup. “Did you see how she didn’t ask? That's respect. Or fear. Either way, delicious.” The garden around them writhed with creeping vines, disembodied hats bouncing around like caffeinated rabbits. A chandelier swung lazily from nothing above, draped in spoons and moth wings. Something giggled from behind the sugar bowl. Possibly the sugar bowl. But the Hatter kept his eyes on her. “You seem nice,” he said, leaning in. “I like that. Nice people scream better.” She reached for a biscuit. It hissed. She ate it anyway. He laughed—sharp, short, and uncomfortably sexual. “I knew I liked you. I’ve always admired a woman who snacks through trauma.” The teacup rattled again. Louder this time. Maple finally spoke. “Is it... bleeding?” “Not yet,” the Hatter chirped. “But give it a minute. I steeped it with unresolved daddy issues and beetroot.” From a corner of the table, a doily sighed. Somewhere behind her, the Cheshire Cat blinked into half-existence, rolled its eyes, and blinked right back out. And so the Unhinged Hour began—one guest, one hatter, and one pot of something suspiciously coagulated. Just the way he liked it. The Tart of Knowing Things The Hatter leaned forward until his hat nearly grazed the burning candle stuck to the top of a mummified hedgehog centerpiece. “Now that you’ve tasted trauma with a side of biscuit,” he grinned, “let’s move on to the amuse-bouche of revelation.” He produced a small tart from beneath his sleeve. It was glistening, dark, and trembling slightly, as though it regretted existing. “This,” he said, holding it out like a sacrament, “is the Tart of Knowing Things. Eat it, and you’ll understand absolutely everything... for five to seven minutes.” Maple squinted at it. “What kind of things?” “All the things. The cosmic things. The unsettling things. The stuff you think about at 3:17 AM when your ceiling fan sounds like it's trying to confess to murder.” She looked down at the tart. It twitched. She looked back up. “Will I still be me afterward?” He shrugged. “Hard to say. That depends entirely on how much of ‘you’ is made of denial.” Against every instinct her childhood therapist had installed, she took the tart and popped it into her mouth. The moment it hit her tongue, the world bloomed sideways. Colors became smells, time hiccupped, and the table started reciting slam poetry about abandonment issues. Her mind opened like a back-alley curtain, and behind it stood a naked version of herself, dramatically weeping into a croissant. And then—clarity. She knew. She knew the Hatter’s real name was Harold. She knew the spoon collection was organized by trauma category. She knew the tea was not tea. And, most importantly, she knew that the chandelier overhead was sentient and judging her for that time she kissed Greg behind the frozen peas in college. Bastard Greg. She came to with a scream that was mostly vowels. The Hatter applauded, setting off a chain reaction of polite clapping from the hats on the table. “Well done!” he shouted. “Most guests only scream in German.” Maple slammed her teacup down. “You drugged me!” He scoffed. “I enhanced you. You’re welcome.” She looked down. Her legs had grown tiny shoes and were dancing independently beneath the table. The Hatter took a long, luxurious slurp of his not-tea. “Now that you’ve been spiritually exfoliated,” he said, “you’re ready for the riddle segment.” “There's a riddle segment?” He stood, dramatically sweeping his arms. “Of course! Every good tea party includes riddles, emotionally compromised guests, and light necromancy.” He cleared his throat and began: “What has twelve eyes, three opinions, and one regret named Carl?” Maple blinked. “Is it you?” The Hatter grinned. “Nope! It’s my mother. But close enough. Partial credit. You win a whisper.” Before she could decline, he leaned across the table and whispered something so outrageous, so wildly profane, so cosmically bizarre, that one of her eyelashes burst into flames. The candle-laden hedgehog clapped its little paws in approval. “That was not consensual whispering,” she mumbled, patting out the smolder. “Neither was this table setting,” he quipped, gesturing toward a bowl of lemons that were actively fighting amongst themselves. Just then, a faint bell chimed in the distance. The Hatter froze, mid-lick of his cup’s rim. “Ah,” he murmured. “The Twelfth Teacup is arriving. She’s never late. She’s just fashionably apocalyptic.” Maple, still high on existential pastry, tried to steady her breathing. “Who’s the Twelfth Teacup?” His expression turned solemn, for exactly three seconds. Then he burst into giggles. “You’ll see. She’s a delight. If delight were a grenade inside a Victoria’s Secret bag.” And with that, he stood, bowed with the elegance of someone who learned manners from a pirate, and beckoned her toward a doorway that hadn’t been there a moment ago—arched in teacups and glowing faintly with menace. “Come,” he said. “Let’s ruin what’s left of your dignity together.” She stood. Her chair sighed in disappointment. The chandelier coughed. Maple followed him through the arch, the walls pulsing like they were breathing, and the faint sounds of croquet played with screaming hedgehogs echoing ahead. She did not know what lay beyond, only that it smelled like cinnamon, regret, and something aggressively floral. But she knew one thing for sure: if she survived this tea party, she was definitely leaving a bad Yelp review. The Rise of the Twelfth Teacup The corridor curved like a serpent on meth, pulsating with floral wallpaper that blinked in sync with Maple’s mild anxiety attack. The Hatter skipped ahead, humming a tune that sounded suspiciously like “Stayin’ Alive” played backward. With each step, the air grew thicker, syrupy—like breathing through raspberry jam laced with sass. Lights flickered overhead, not from faulty wiring, but from personal spite. “Nearly there,” the Hatter chirped. “The Twelfth Teacup loves making an entrance. She once showed up inside a flamingo.” “Alive?” Maple asked. “Debatable.” The door at the end of the hallway was made of what appeared to be interlaced cat tails. Actual tails. They twitched as they opened themselves with a dramatic yawn, revealing a vast, shadowy ballroom where gravity was more of a suggestion. Chandeliers spun like confused ballerinas. A tea fountain gurgled blood-orange Earl Grey from a gargoyle’s mouth. A harp played itself in the corner and had very strong opinions about polyamory. And there, rising from a mound of stale biscotti like a chaos phoenix, stood the Twelfth Teacup. She was radiant in the way a solar flare is radiant—beautiful, terrifying, and likely to burn off your eyebrows. Her dress was stitched from mismatched pocket watches and scandalous secrets. Her lipstick was unapologetically venomous. Her eyes? Two twin galaxies contemplating homicide. “You brought a mortal?” she hissed, her voice both sultry and echoing like an emotional Yelp review. “She ate the Tart of Knowing Things,” said the Hatter, bowing so deeply he vanished entirely for a moment. “She’s earned her chaos badge.” Maple curtsied. Badly. A teaspoon exploded nearby in protest. “Very well,” the Teacup purred. “Let the Ceremony commence.” Two skeletal flamingos clattered into the room carrying trays: one with teacups, one with weapons. The Hatter raised an eyebrow. “Dealer’s choice, love.” Maple looked back and forth. “...Is it always like this?” “Only on days that end in ‘why.’” She grabbed a teacup. The Hatter grabbed a chainsaw. The Twelfth Teacup sighed and pulled out a live crab wearing a monocle. “To the table,” she declared, floating there like an angry bar mitzvah balloon. The Grand Table was absurdly long and hovered six inches off the ground. As they took their seats, chairs sprouted legs and adjusted themselves with judgmental groans. Maple found herself between the Hatter and a sentient pile of hair named Carl. Carl winked. She politely ignored him. “The rules are simple,” the Teacup explained. “We pour. We sip. We confess our most forbidden truths. And then we wrestle, spiritually or otherwise.” Maple blinked. “Is this... strip confession tea wrestling?” “It’s tradition,” the Hatter whispered, already barefoot and halfway into a feather boa. One by one, they poured steaming liquid into their cups. Maple’s smelled like licorice and broken promises. The Hatter’s hissed when touched. Carl’s cup filled itself with what could only be described as hot existential dread. They drank. All at once. And then, like a switch was flipped in her psyche, Maple stood up and confessed. Loudly. To everything. She’d never tipped a street musician, not once. She lied about liking goat cheese. She once pretended to be a cat for two weeks in college to avoid finals. Meowed in class. Got an A. The Hatter followed: “I once spooned a banshee, purely for warmth. She howled my name for hours. We still send each other dead roses.” The Twelfth Teacup rose like a vengeful sorceress. “I created Boy Bands just to distract humanity from my dark machinations. You’re welcome for the bops.” It escalated quickly. Carl accused the harp of ghosting him on a third date. The chandelier sobbed in Latin. The tea fountain began to spray wine. Someone somewhere shouted “YOLO!” and tried to wrestle a ghost in formalwear. Suddenly the walls collapsed outward, revealing a carnival tent under a sky made of swirling wallpaper and judgment. The tent was on fire, but politely so. “This,” the Hatter said, spinning in delight, “is the end of the party! The madness crescendo! The tea-nal reckoning!” Maple’s cup exploded. She laughed. Honest, guttural, ridiculous laughter. Something inside her cracked open—not painfully, but joyfully. A part of her that had been sipping tepid normality for years finally slurped the insanity it had secretly craved. “What happens now?” she asked. The Twelfth Teacup floated by, fixing her with a grin. “Now you decide—go back to your normal life... or stay, and host the next tea war.” Maple glanced at the Hatter. He had painted his knees and was slow-dancing with a lampshade. She smiled. “Pass the tart. I’m staying.” And with that, the ballroom erupted into applause, the hats flung themselves in the air like tiny woolen fireworks, and the Hatter took her hand, twirled her into the spotlight, and declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, and others delightfully undefined—meet your new Mistress of the Absurd!” The music swelled. The tea poured. The madness danced. And Maple, once mundane and spoonless, became legend in a world that ran on nonsense, steeped in sin, and served with a cinnamon rim. — Fin. (Or... To Be Reboiled.)     Love the madness? Steep yourself in it—literally. If this unhinged journey into velvet chaos and tea-fueled delirium left you smiling like a dangerously overdressed maniac, why not take a little slice of that madness home? Wrap yourself in cozy lunacy with our fleece blanket, perfect for late-night tart-fueled revelations. Or bring that slightly-judgmental-whimsy into your daily routine with a shower curtain that definitely sees more than it lets on. Need a little wall madness? The acrylic print is sharper than the Hatter’s tongue, and the tapestry turns any boring wall into a portal to stylish derangement. Because tea parties come and go, but absurdity is forever.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Blush of the Bog

The Puddle Prowler There are fairies. There are elves. There are even goblins with decent posture and good credit scores. But what most people don’t know is that deep within the boggy armpit of the forgotten wetland known as the Muckfluff Fen, lives a creature so uniquely chaotic, so blindingly delightful, that no single species would dare claim her. Her name—best whispered with reverence or shouted while mildly drunk—is Tangleberry Fernwick the Third. No one really knows what happened to the First and Second Tangleberries, but if Tangleberry the Third is any indication, they probably giggled themselves into mushrooms and floated off into the breeze. Our Tangleberry was born on a Tuesday, during a solar burp, under a sky that thought it was ocean. Her hair exploded into the world in a glorious mess of hot pink and electric blue, defying gravity and taste. Her first words were, “Well, this is unfortunate,” after which she attempted to sue the midwife for using scratchy moss towels. She lost the case, but gained the town’s grudging respect. Now fully grown—if you could call knee-height and eternally barefoot “grown”—Tangleberry was the Fen’s most prolific troublemaker and unsolicited therapist. She’d hold counseling sessions for cranky frogs and moody mushrooms on a flat lily pad she insisted was “her stage.” Her specialty? Helping creatures embrace their weird. Tangleberry considered herself a Certified Goblet of Glittery Truths (a title she gave herself and embroidered on a vest made of snail shells). She sat most mornings on her favorite rock, right in the middle of the bog’s most photogenic pond. It wasn’t photogenic to anyone else, but to her, the slightly slimy lily pads, buzzing dragonflies, and the scent of fermenting cattails were a sensory buffet of pure euphoria. Chin resting in palms, freckles glowing like fallen stars, she would smile at her reflection and say, “Damn, you are a natural disaster in the best way possible.” Today, however, was different. The pond had grown suspiciously quiet. Even Barry, the emotionally constipated bullfrog who practiced slam poetry on Wednesdays, was missing. Tangleberry’s toe twitched. Something was afoot. “I swear by my braid bead,” she muttered, tightening the little brass ring that bound her hot-pink side braid, “if the Fae Council is trying to ‘intervene’ again, I’m throwing glitter in their soup.” She hopped off her rock, landing in a dramatic crouch that absolutely no one saw. A shame, really, because it was majestic and slightly moist. Wading through lily pads and soggy reeds, she began her journey to investigate the Disappearance of Normal Weirdness—a quest that would ultimately challenge everything she believed about bog politics, amphibian fashion, and whether one could truly love a mushroom named Harold. The Mushroom, the Muck, and the Middle-Fingered Moon Harold, it turned out, was not only missing—he’d been kidnapped. Or at least, that’s what Tangleberry concluded when she reached his favorite sulking stump and found only a slimy note pinned to a toadstool with a very rude stick. “Gone 2 the Crust. Smell ya.” “The Crust?” Tangleberry gasped. “Oh, no no. Not the moss crust. Nobody voluntarily goes there. It's full of soggy purists and compost snobs who alphabetize their pebbles. Ugh.” Harold, her best friend, confidant, and occasional hat, was a fluffed-up, mood-swingy mushroom who once wrote an angry letter to a rainbow for being too mainstream. He wore a monocle (despite having no eyes) and took pride in being “a fungal of principle.” His favorite activities included passive-aggressive haiku, sitting with aggressive stillness, and doing nothing while making everyone feel inferior about it. Tangleberry squinted at the faint footprints in the muck. Definitely Harold’s. And they were headed straight for the edge of the Crust—the driest, most regulated zone of the entire bog. The Crust was governed by the BCB: the Bureau of Clean Behavior. Founded by elder swamp elves who thought spontaneity was “unflattering,” the BCB was famous for three things: banning glitter, assigning mandatory moods, and outlawing any footwear not beige. Tangleberry cracked her knuckles. “This means war,” she declared, shaking swamp water off her oversized ears like a very cute dog after a scandal. She plucked her sassiest reed flute from her moss-sack, grabbed her mood ring (which always pointed to “delightfully unstable”), and stomped toward the Crust with all the righteous fury of a toddler denied juice. Halfway there, she was intercepted by a sentient fog named Clive. “Password,” Clive whispered ominously, curling around her ankles like a clingy sock. “Eat moss, Clive,” she snapped. “Correct.” He drifted aside with a dramatic sigh. “You’re lucky I like you, Fernwick.” “Everybody likes me. I’m like fungus for the soul.” She strutted past him, humming a little swamp anthem she’d composed entirely from frog belches and newt squeaks. The BCB’s checkpoint loomed ahead: a damp arch made of well-behaved twigs, manned by an elf wearing the expression of someone who hated fun and regularly chewed gravel for breakfast. His name tag read “Gilbert, Compliance Elf (Level 7).” “State your business,” he intoned, eyes squinting at her braid and glimmer-stained cheeks. “Looking for a mushroom. Goes by Harold. Smells like regret and old socks. Might be under the impression he belongs in Beige Town.” Gilbert frowned. “All unauthorized flora must be registered. You’ll need Form 37-M. In triplicate.” “I’ve got a better idea,” she chirped, stepping close enough to boop his nose. “How about I distract you with some whimsical nonsense while I dramatically sneak in and unleash a one-person revolution?” Gilbert blinked. “I—what?” But it was too late. Tangleberry backflipped (not gracefully, but with wild conviction) through the checkpoint, kicking over a stack of rules and accidentally slapping a ferret intern with her braid. Chaos bloomed in her wake like enthusiastic mold. The Crust was worse than she imagined. Uniform cottages arranged in suspiciously straight rows, organized lily pad schedules, laughter that had to be pre-approved, and not a single sparkle in sight. The residents—pale, beige-clad elves with no visible sense of irony—gawked as she danced down the main road in socks with visible toes. It was the closest the town had come to rioting in centuries. Finally, in the middle of a mossy plaza called “Appropriate Gathering Circle B,” she found him. Harold. Sitting in a clay pot. Wearing a bowtie. “Tangles?” he blinked. “You came.” “Of course I came! You left without your rage journal! You know you get cranky without it.” “I was... tired. Of being weird. Of not being ‘functional fungus.’ They said I could be cultivated here. Respected. Grown with purpose.” She knelt beside him, placing a hand over his cap. “Babe. You’re the least functional thing I’ve ever met. And that’s why you’re perfect.” Silence hung heavy. And then, a slow grin spread across Harold’s frilled lips. “Let’s burn it all down?” “With jazz hands.” Ten minutes later, the Crust was a confetti-drenched war zone of renegade reeds and unleashed pond sprites. Tangleberry had stolen Gilbert’s clipboard and was using it as a limbo stick. Harold sang interpretive dirges while juggling rocks. Clive returned, dramatically announcing himself with foghorn impressions. By sundown, the Crust had cracked. A dozen uptight elves joined in, rediscovering their inner nonsense. One confessed he’d always wanted to paint angry ducks. Another invented a dance called “The Moist Wobble.” And Harold? He wore a tutu made from crinkled bureaucratic memos and declared himself “Queen of the Peat.” Tangleberry watched the moon rise, slouching comfortably on her reclaimed pond rock. “Not bad for a day’s work,” she mumbled. “Maybe tomorrow I’ll start a revolution in the Gassy Reeds District.” The moon winked back. Literally. And then flipped her off in jest. She grinned. Because in the bog, love was muddy, rules were optional, and weird was sacred. Of Glitter Bombs and Grandmother’s Teeth In the weeks following the Glitter Uprising of the Crust, the bog had become a very different place. What was once a patchwork of quarrelsome fens and mossy jurisdictions now pulsed with eccentricity. The BCB was disbanded (after a dramatic bake-off lost to a feral raccoon), Harold’s tutu was added to the Bog Museum of Disobedient Fashion, and Tangleberry Fernwick the Third became a reluctant folk hero, much to her horror and delight. “I didn’t do it to be famous,” she said, sprawled in a hammock made from otter whiskers and shredded bylaws. “I did it for the vibes.” “You’ve become a symbol,” Harold replied, sipping tea from a thimble while wearing a sash that read PEAT ICON. “There are murals. Muralssssss.” “Oh gods.” Tangleberry groaned and rolled out of the hammock. “You know what this means, right?” Harold nodded solemnly. “Your grandmother’s coming.” Now. Most folks hear “grandmother” and think of doilies, sugar cookies, or judgmental knitting. But in the swamp, things were... more intense. Granny Fenfen Fernwick—first of her name, last of her patience—was the oldest creature in the bog. Not “old” like bent and wrinkly. “Old” like the universe tripped and dropped a galaxy and it became her. She lived in a twisted willow tree that allegedly predated gravity. Her house was guarded by sentient bark lice and a bear who wrote limericks. Her teeth were removable, glowing, and extremely aggressive when insulted. And worst of all—she was proud. Tangleberry could already hear it: “Oh, look at you, little goblet. Starting revolutions. Causing chaos. That’s my girl. But your ears are uneven and your sarcasm is too moist.” The visit was scheduled for Slurpday (the fourth day of the week, named after a local weather pattern), and the entire bog was in a frenzy. Creatures scrubbed mushrooms. Frogs rehearsed synchronized burping. A choir of newts tuned their tails. Harold re-laced his bowtie and dabbed lavender oil on his cap. Tangleberry just sat on her rock and tried to fake her own abduction. At precisely fourteen sploshes past noon, the air went still. A hush fell. Even the breeze dared not exhale. Then came the shriek of warped reality and the faint clatter of ancestral bones. Granny Fernwick had arrived, riding a floating recliner made of blackberries and arrogance. Her hair was a storm cloud held together with spells and defiance. Her robes billowed with secrets. Her eyes gleamed like lightning in a bottle that didn’t ask permission to be opened. “Where’s my little bog fart?” she bellowed, causing two mushrooms to faint and a salamander to combust out of sheer respect. Tangleberry stepped forward, biting her lip. “Hi Granny.” Granny raised one eyebrow, which caused a nearby toad to lay an egg. “You’ve grown. And by grown I mean sideways. Why is your hair doing jazz hands?” “Because it knows it’s iconic.” “Fair.” Granny hovered ominously. “I’ve heard tales, you know. Saw your face in the moss news. You’ve turned the Crust into a circus, corrupted a mushroom, and convinced a fog to unionize.” “Clive negotiated paid lunch breaks.” “Good. I always liked Clive. Moist but sensible.” The two Fernwicks stared at each other, measuring their mischief. Finally, Granny reached into her robe and pulled out a tin box. “Well then. Time you had this.” Tangleberry blinked. “What is it?” “Your inheritance.” Inside the box was a single item: an ancient glitter bomb, humming with suppressed fabulousness. Crafted during the Time of Too Much Magic, it had been outlawed by six governments and one very offended mole. Legend said it could turn a room into a disco orgy of uncontrolled authenticity. “It’s... beautiful.” “Use it wisely,” Granny intoned, narrowing her stormy eyes. “Or recklessly. Honestly, whatever. Just promise me one thing.” “Anything.” “Never let them tame you.” With that, Granny snapped her fingers, turned into a burst of mossy cackling, and vanished into a fold in the weather. Silence. Harold leaned close. “I peed a little.” “Me too.” From that moment forward, everything changed. Tangleberry began traveling the bog, spreading the Gospel of Glitter. Not a cult. Definitely not a cult. More like a very enthusiastic book club with questionable ethics and regular dance battles. She carried the bomb in a pouch tied to her tail and told its story to every weirdo she met. She taught swamp gnomes how to rebel with confetti. She kissed a tree spirit and didn’t call him back. She ate a moonbeam on a dare and got indigestion for a week. She helped Harold launch a poetry magazine written entirely in mold spores. And she wore her uniqueness like armor made of swamp sass and joy. On her 143rd birthday, the pond she once sat beside was renamed “Tangle’s Blush.” A tourist spot. A sacred silly place. Where frogs wore hats and everyone was just a little bit extra. And in the dead of night, if you sat still enough, you might hear the pop of a distant glitter bomb, a shriek of laughter, and the faint, fond whisper of an ancient swamp witch saying: “That’s my girl.”     Take the magic home! Whether you're a lifelong bog-dweller or just someone who dreams in glitter and lily pads, you can now bring the weird and wonderful world of Tangleberry Fernwick into your everyday life. Adorn your walls with a framed print of “Blush of the Bog,” send enchantment through the mail with a whimsical greeting card, or make a splash at the nearest swamp (or beach) with the boldest towel this side of the fen. Carry your sass in style with a roomy tote bag, or go full swamp-chic with a stunning metal print that practically cackles with mischief. All products feature the original artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman, exclusively at shop.unfocussed.com.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Sassy Shroom Shenanigans

Tongue Wars and the Forest Code of Sass In the deepest thicket of the Glibbergrove, where mushrooms grew big enough to get parking tickets and squirrels wore monocles unironically, there perched a gnome with absolutely no chill. His name? Grimbold Butterbuttons. His vibe? Absolute chaos in wool socks. Grimbold wasn't your average gnome. While the others busied themselves polishing snail shells or whittling toothbrushes from elder twigs, Grimbold had an entire *reputation* for being the forest’s number one instigator. He made faces at butterflies. He photobombed the Council of Owls. Once, he’d even replaced the Queen Badger’s royal tea with flat root beer just to watch her snort. So naturally, it made perfect sense that Grimbold had a pet dragon. A tiny pet dragon. One that barely came up to his belt buckle but acted like she ruled the canopy. Her name was Zilch, short for Zilcharia Flameyfangs the Third, but no one called her that unless they wanted to get singed eyebrows. That morning, the two of them were doing what they did best—being complete little shits. "Bet you can't hold that face for longer than me," Grimbold snorted, sticking out his tongue like a drunken goose and widening his eyes so far they looked like boiled turnips. Zilch, wings flaring, narrowed her gold-slitted eyes. "I INVENTED this face," she rasped, then mimicked him with such perfect deranged accuracy that even the birds stopped mid-tweet. The two locked in a battle of absurdity atop a giant red-capped mushroom—their usual morning perch-slash-stage. Tongues out. Eyes bugged. Nostrils flaring like melodramatic llamas. It was a face-off of epic immaturity, and they were both thriving. "You’re creasing your eyebrows wrong!" Zilch barked. "You’re blinking too much, cheater!" Grimbold fired back. A fat beetle waddled by with a judgmental glance, muttering, "Honestly, I preferred the mime duel last week." But they didn’t care. These two lived for this kind of nonsense. Where others saw an ancient, mysterious forest full of magic and mystery, they saw a playground. A sass-ground, if you will. And so began their day of shenanigans, with their sacred forest motto etched in mushroom spores and glitter glue: “Mock first. Ask questions never.” Only they didn’t realize that today’s game of tongue wars would unlock an accidental spell, open an interdimensional portal, and quite possibly awaken a mushroom warlord who’d once been banned for excessive pettiness. But hey—that’s a problem for later. The Portal of Pfft and the Rise of Lord Sporesnort Grimbold Butterbuttons’ tongue was still proudly extended when it happened. A *wet* sound split the air, somewhere between a cosmic zipper and a squirrel flatulating through a didgeridoo. Zilch’s pupils dilated to the size of acorns. “Grim,” she croaked, “did you just... open a thing?” The gnome didn’t answer. Mostly because his face was frozen mid-snarl, one eye twitching and tongue still glued to his chin like a sweaty stamp. Behind them, the mushroom shivered. Not metaphorically. Like, the actual mushroom. It quivered with a noise that sounded like giggling algae. And from its spore-speckled surface, a jagged tear opened in the air, like reality had been cut with blunt safety scissors. From within, a purple light pulsed like an angry disco ball. "...Oh," said Grimbold finally, blinking. "Oopsie-tootsie." Zilch smacked her forehead with a tiny claw. "You broke space again! That’s the third time this week! Do you even read the warnings in the moss tomes?" "No one reads the moss tomes," Grimbold said, shrugging. "They smell like foot soup." With a moist belch of spores and questionable glitter, something began to emerge from the portal. First came a cloud of lavender steam, then a large floppy hat. Then—very slowly—a pair of glowing green eyes, slitted like a grumpy cat that hadn’t had its brunch pâté. “I AM THE MIGHTY LORD SPORESNORT,” boomed a voice that somehow smelled like truffle oil and unwashed gym socks. “HE WHO WAS BANISHED FOR EXCESSIVE PETTINESS. HE WHO ONCE CURSED AN ENTIRE KINGDOM WITH ITCHY NIPPLES OVER A GRAMMAR MISTAKE.” Zilch gave Grimbold the longest side-eye in the history of side-eyes. "Did you just summon the ancient fungal sass-demon of legend?" "To be fair," Grimbold muttered, "I was aiming for a fart with echo." Out stepped Lord Sporesnort in full regalia—moss robes, mycelium boots, and a walking staff shaped like a passive-aggressive spatula. His beard was made entirely of mold. And not the cool, forest-sorcerer kind. The fuzzy fridge kind. He radiated judgment and lingering disappointment. "BEHOLD MY REVENGE!" Sporesnort roared. "I SHALL COVER THIS FOREST IN SPORE-MODED MISCHIEF. ALL SHALL BE IRRITATED BY THE SLIGHTEST INCONVENIENCES!" With a dramatic swirl, he cast his first spell: “Itchicus Everlasting!” Suddenly, a thousand woodland creatures began scratching themselves uncontrollably. Squirrels tumbled from branches in mid-itch. A badger ran by shrieking about chafing. Even the bees looked uncomfortable. "Okay, no. This won’t do," said Zilch, cracking her knuckles with tiny thunderclaps. "This is our forest. We annoy the locals. You don’t get to roll in with your ancient mushroom face and out-sass us." "Hear hear!" shouted Grimbold, standing proudly with one foot on a suspicious mushroom that squelched like an angry pudding. "We may be chaotic, bratty, and tragically underqualified for any real leadership, but this is our turf, you decomposing jockstrap." Lord Sporesnort laughed—an echoing wheeze that smelled of old salad. “Very well, tiny fools. Then I challenge you... to the TRIAL OF THE TRIPLE-TIERED TONGUE!” A hush fell across the glade. Somewhere, a duck dropped its sandwich. "Uh, is that a real thing?" Zilch whispered. "It is now," Sporesnort grinned, raising three slimy mushroom caps into the air. "You must perform the ultimate display of synchronized facial sass—a three-round tongue duel. Lose, and I take over Glibbergrove. Win, and I shall return to the Sporeshade Realms to wallow in my own tragic flamboyance." "You're on," said Grimbold, his face twitching with a growing smirk. "But if we win, you also have to admit that your cloak makes your butt look wide." "I—FINE," Sporesnort spat, turning slightly to cover his rear fungus flare. And thus the stage was set. Creatures gathered. Leaves rustled with gossip. A beetle vendor set up a stand selling roasted aphids on sticks and “I ♥ Sporesnort” foam fingers. Even the wind paused to see what the hell was about to happen. Grimbold and Zilch, side by side on their mushroom stage, cracked their necks, stretched their cheeks, and waggled their tongues. A hush fell. Sporesnort’s fungal beard trembled in anticipation. "Let the tongue games begin!" shouted a squirrel with a referee whistle. The Final Tongue-Off and the Scandal of the Sassy Underwear The crowd leaned in. A snail fell off its mushroom seat in suspense. Somewhere in the distance, a fungus chime rang out one somber, reverberating note. The *Trial of the Triple-Tiered Tongue* had officially begun. Round One was a classic: The Eyeball Stretch & Tongue Combo. Lord Sporesnort made the first move, his eyes bugging out like a pair of grapefruit on springs as he whipped out his tongue with such velocity it created a mild sonic pop. The crowd gasped. A field mouse fainted. “BEHOLD!” he roared, his voice echoing through the mushroom caps. “THIS IS THE ANCIENT FORM KNOWN AS ‘GORGON’S SURPRISE’!” Zilch narrowed her eyes. “That’s just ‘Monday Morning Face’ in dragon preschool.” She casually blew a tiny flame to toast a passing marshmallow on a stick, then locked eyes with Grimbold. They nodded. The duo launched into their countermove: synchronized bug-eyes, nostril flares, and tongues waggling side to side like possessed metronomes. It was elegant. It was chaotic. A raccoon dropped its pipe and screamed, “SWEET GRUBS, I’VE SEEN THE TRUTH!” “ROUND ONE: TIED,” announced the squirrel referee, his whistle now glowing from sheer stress.     Round Two: The Sass Spiral For this, the goal was to layer expressions with insult-level flair. Bonus points for eyebrow choreography. Lord Sporesnort twisted his fungal lips into a smug, upturned frown and performed what could only be described as a sassy interpretive dance using only his eyebrows. He finished by flipping his cloak, revealing fungus-embroidered briefs with the words “BITTER BUT CUTE” stitched across the rear in glowing mycelium thread. The crowd lost their collective minds. The beetle vendor passed out. A hedgehog screamed and launched into a bush. “I call that,” Sporesnort said smugly, “the Sporeshake 9000.” Grimbold stepped forward slowly. Too slowly. Suspense dripped off him like condensation off a cold goblet of forest grog. Then he struck. He wiggled his ears. He furrowed one brow. His tongue spiraled into a perfect helix, and he puffed out his cheeks until he looked like an emotionally unstable turnip. Then, with a slow, dramatic flourish, he turned around and revealed a patch sewn into the seat of his corduroy trousers. It read, in shimmering gold thread: “YOU JUST GOT GNOMED.” The forest exploded. Not literally, but close enough. Owls fainted. Mushrooms combusted from joy. A badger couple started a slow chant. “Gnome’d! Gnome’d! Gnome’d!” Zilch, not to be outdone, reared back and made the universal hand-and-claw gesture for *“Your fungus ain’t funky, babe.”* Her tail flicked with weaponized sass. The moment was perfect. "ROUND TWO: ADVANTAGE — GNOME & DRAGON!" the referee squeaked, tears running down his cheeks as he blew the whistle like it was possessed.     Final Round: Wildcard Mayhem Sporesnort snarled, spores puffing from his ears. “Fine. No more cute. No more coy. I invoke... the SACRED MUSHUNDERWEAR TECHNIQUE!” He ripped open his robes to reveal undergarments enchanted with wriggling fungal runes and vines that wove his sass into the very fabric of the universe. “This,” he bellowed, “is FUNGIFLEX™ — powered by enchanted stretch and interdimensional attitude.” The forest fell into a hush of pure, horrified admiration. Grimbold simply looked at Zilch and smirked. “We break reality now?” “Break it so hard it apologizes,” she growled. The gnome clambered atop the dragon’s back. Zilch flared her wings, eyes burning gold. Together they launched into the air with a mighty WHEEEEEEE and a burst of glitter confetti summoned from a leftover prank spell. As they twirled through the sky, they performed their final move: a dual loop-de-loop followed by simultaneous tongue-wagging, face-contorting, and butt-shaking. From Grimbold’s trousers, a secret pocket opened, revealing a banner that read, in flashing enchanted letters: “GNOME SWEAT DON’T QUIT.” They landed with a thump, Zilch belching sparkles. The crowd was in chaos. Tears. Screaming. An impromptu interpretive dance broke out. The forest was on the brink of a vibe collapse. “FINE!” Sporesnort yelled, voice cracking. “YOU WIN! I’LL GO! BUT YOU... YOU SHALL RUE THIS DAY. I’LL BE BACK. WITH MORE UNDERWEAR.” He swirled into his own portal of shame and unresolved mushroom trauma, leaving behind only the faint scent of garlic and regret. Zilch and Grimbold collapsed atop their favorite mushroom. The glade shimmered under the setting sun. Birds chirped again. The badger couple kissed. Someone started roasting victory marshmallows. "Well," said Grimbold, licking his thumb and smearing moss off his cheek. "That was... probably the third weirdest Tuesday we’ve had." "Easily," Zilch agreed, biting into a celebratory beetle snack. "Next time we prank a warlord, can we avoid the fungal lingerie?" "No promises." And so, with tongues dry and reputations elevated to mythical status, the gnome and the dragon resumed their sacred morning ritual: laughing at absolutely everything and being gloriously, unapologetically weird together. The end. Probably.     Want to bring the sass home? Whether you're a certified mischief-maker or just deeply appreciate the sacred art of tongue-based warfare, you can now take a piece of Grimbold and Zilch’s legendary moment into your own lair. Frame the chaos with a gallery-quality print, wrap yourself in their ridiculousness with this fleece blanket, or go full forest-chic with a wood print that'll make even Lord Sporesnort jealous. Send cheeky greetings with a whimsical card, or slap some mushroom-powered attitude onto your stuff with this top-tier Sassy Shroom Shenanigans sticker. Because let’s be honest—your life could use more dragons and fewer boring walls.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Teatime Tides

The Steepening There was a mermaid in Margot’s teacup. Now, you may think that’s the kind of sentence best reserved for children’s books or individuals who lick glue recreationally, but Margot had, in fact, just brewed a rather ordinary chamomile. And she was quite certain the tea did not include mythical beings on the ingredient list—unless Whole Foods had finally cracked and gone full goblin-core. The mermaid, for her part, looked mildly irritated but otherwise fabulous. She had a tail like sequin-infused sapphire syrup, hair that swirled like coffee cream in slow motion, and an attitude that read “Instagram influencer who’s too good for your land-based nonsense.” Perched beside her was a smug little seahorse, bobbing with the lazy swish of her fishtail like he was waiting to be knighted. “Ahem,” Margot said, peering into the cup. “Why are you in my tea?” “Why aren’t you?” the mermaid replied, stretching languidly in the lemon-honey swirl. Her voice had that bubbly champagne pop to it—too sparkly to be mad at, but fizzy enough to stir unease. Margot blinked. She was dressed in three-day-old yoga pants, had half a Pop-Tart in her hair, and was aggressively not caffeinated. Either this was a nervous breakdown or the world had decided to finally acknowledge her main character energy. “This isn’t a metaphor, is it? You’re not here to teach me self-love through marine metaphysics?” she asked, tapping the rim of the cup. The teacup responded with a dignified ping, like a crystal goblet being slightly insulted. “Oh please,” scoffed the mermaid. “Do I look like a self-help allegory? I’m on a lunch break. This is my spa cup. You’re the one who summoned me by pouring the water clockwise over that expired loose-leaf blend. Honestly, who still uses loose-leaf without a strainer? It’s chaos in here.” Margot leaned closer. “So you’re like… a unionized teacup mermaid? You have breaks?” “We all have breaks,” the mermaid said primly, adjusting her sea-shell bikini top like it had a grudge. “You think the tide takes itself out? You people are so self-absorbed.” The seahorse burped. Margot could’ve sworn it sounded like, “Amen.” At that moment, a butterfly flitted past and landed delicately on the cup’s rim, blinking its wings as if it, too, was trying to process the situation. “Okay,” Margot said finally, sitting down at her cluttered table. “Talk to me. Are there rules? Do I owe you rent? Am I secretly a siren queen or is this just the chamomile kicking in?” The mermaid’s smile curled like a tidepool secret. “Oh honey. This is only the steeping stage. Things get truly weird after the second sip.” Margot stared at the cup. The tea shimmered. The seahorse winked. Against all better judgment—and with a flair only chaos could summon—Margot took another sip. And the room, quite politely, wobbled sideways. Deep Brew Margot was falling, but not in the dramatic, flailing-into-a-void kind of way. No, this was more like being slowly poured into a velvet-glazed dream funnel lined with glitter and scented vaguely of sea salt and bergamot. One second, she was upright in her very real kitchen. The next? She was shoulder-deep in something warm and viscous and vaguely peach-colored, like time had decided to host a bubble bath. “Ope—watch the cascade, you’re creasing the ambiance,” said the mermaid, who was now full-sized and reclining like a smug goddess on a floating slice of citrus the size of a life raft. Margot flailed until she was upright and sputtering. “Am I IN the tea?” “Technically, yes. But spiritually? You’re in the interdimensional spa realm of Steepacia. Welcome. We host Wednesdays.” The space around her was absurd in a way only dreams or luxury catalogs dared to be. Opalescent tea leaves floated lazily like jellyfish through the golden infusion. Delicate teaspoons flitted like hummingbirds, and somewhere in the distance, a harp made entirely of kelp played something that sounded suspiciously like Enya trying jazz. “I knew it,” Margot muttered, eyeing her floating reflection. “I wore my regret pants today. Of course I end up in an existential tea dimension wearing regret pants.” The mermaid let out a melodic giggle and tossed her damp hair like she was auditioning for a shampoo ad in Atlantis. “Relax, landling. This place responds to your emotional temperature. Here—have a mental mimosa.” With a delicate flick of her tail, she conjured a sparkling glass that hovered just within reach. Margot took a sip. It tasted like nostalgia, orgasms, and brunch. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that, but she was significantly less anxious. “Okay,” she said, voice calmer but still riding the WTF rollercoaster. “So... is this a one-way trip? Do I need to kiss a kelp wizard to get out, or...” “Gods, no,” said a new voice, sharp and vaguely crustacean. A small crab wearing reading glasses and a necktie clicked into view, holding a clipboard. “She’s a first-brew. Probably temporary. Emotional instability triggered by caffeine deficit. I give her six hours, max.” “Hey,” Margot frowned, “I’ll have you know I’m emotionally stable enough to hold down a job, keep a houseplant alive, and only cry in the car like, once a week.” “Textbook.” The crab sighed and scribbled something. “Please report to the Fennel Sauna for processing.” “Ignore him,” the mermaid whispered. “He’s just bitter because he used to be a dishwasher in the real world and now manages leaf temperature therapy. Anyway, since you’re here, might as well enjoy the amenities.” And that’s how Margot found herself half-submerged in an oolong hot tub beside a unicorn-shaped kettle, being offered cucumber eye patches by a chorus of aquatic mice who hummed barbershop harmonies while exfoliating her aura with matcha seafoam. “I feel like Gwyneth Paltrow’s subconscious,” she murmured, wrapped in a hibiscus robe and watching the mermaid gently braid a rainbow koi into her hair like it was no big deal. “Enjoy it. This place has moods. It picks up on your vibes and… manifests accordingly.” Margot stared across the tea-washed horizon, where clouds shaped like biscotti lazily rumbled past a sun made of glazed lemon. “That sounds like foreshadowing,” she muttered. It was. Because that’s when the seahorse returned—only now it was wearing a tiny pirate hat and riding what appeared to be a jellyfish named Greg. “Emergency in the Rooibos Reefs! The Earl Grey Golem has awakened!” “Oh not again,” groaned the mermaid, who now had a slightly glittery sword tucked behind her ear like a hairpin. Margot raised her hand cautiously. “Quick question. Is this one of those moments where I learn I have hidden powers? Or do I just die creatively and serve as a plot device in someone else’s journey?” “Neither,” the mermaid said, diving gracefully off her citrus raft and summoning a war-squid from thin air. “You’re with me. You’re the emotional ballast.” “The what now?!” But it was too late. She was already astride the seahorse—who smelled faintly of cinnamon gum and teenage rebellion—and flying through the infusional ether like a caffeinated fever dream. Around her, storm clouds of bergamot thundered softly, and beneath them rose the ominous silhouette of the Earl Grey Golem: eight feet of antique porcelain fury, monocle glinting, moustache made of twisted tea leaves. Margot, full of mimosa courage and absolutely none of the necessary life skills, reached into her pocket. Miraculously, she pulled out a tiny teabag. It pulsed with lavender light. “Is that the Sacred Sachet?” the mermaid gasped from her perch on a spiraling honey drizzle vortex. “I dunno,” Margot said, eyes wide. “I think it came from a free sample pack. But it feels... emotionally charged.” “Then throw it. Right at his steeper!” Margot hurled the sachet with the flailing confidence of someone who once got a participation ribbon in elementary school dodgeball. It hit the Golem’s chest with a poof of fragrant steam—and the world paused. The golem blinked, looked down, sniffed, and sighed. A deep, contented sigh. Then he turned into a moderately sized antique teapot and gently plunked into the seafoam. The mermaid stared. The seahorse hiccupped. Greg the jellyfish applauded with one limp tentacle. “What… what just happened?” Margot whispered. “You soothed him. He was overstimulated. Poor guy only wanted a nap and some affirmation,” the mermaid said gently. “You’re very good at this.” “I… am?” “Yes. Emotional ballast. You stabilize the madness. Or at least repackage it in a way the rest of us can process.” Margot blinked, cheeks flushed. “So… like a therapist?” “Or a writer.” That hit a bit too hard. Just then, the sky above them shimmered, and the voice of the crab came booming from nowhere: “Time’s up! She’s beginning to stir in the waking realm.” Margot grabbed the mermaid’s hand instinctively. “Wait—what if I want to stay?” The mermaid smiled, that same sideways, salty grin. “You can’t stay. But you can visit. Anytime you need a break. Just brew clockwise. And never forget to stir with intention.” And with a final warm pulse of honey and lavender, the world turned inside out… The Stirring Margot woke up snort-sneezing on her couch, cheeks squashed against the faux velvet cushion like a crime scene. The tea cup—now completely ordinary, mildly lukewarm, and devoid of any mythical spa creatures—sat smugly on the coffee table, as if it hadn’t just been the portal to an emotionally complex teacup multiverse. She blinked. Sniffed. Peered inside. Nothing. Not a fin. Not a flicker. Not even a suspicious bubble. Just a faint whiff of bergamot and something like glitter trauma. “Okay,” she said to no one, rubbing her temples. “So either I hallucinated a high-budget sea fantasy on a Tuesday, or I just main-charactered my way into another dimension through expired loose-leaf.” She looked around. Her apartment was still her apartment—mildly chaotic, aggressively scented like dry shampoo and panic, and just cozy enough to pass for “intentional.” Her half-eaten Pop-Tart sat on the floor like it, too, had experienced an existential moment. And somewhere in the corner, her cat was making intense eye contact with the radiator, which wasn’t new. Margot leaned over the teacup. “Hey, uh… I don’t know if this is like Beetlejuice rules, but... steepacia, steepacia, steepacia?” Nothing. But the spoon did shimmer slightly. Just once. Almost like a wink. For the rest of the morning, she wandered around in a daze, accidentally brushing her teeth with sunscreen and emailing her boss something that included the phrase “crab-based time therapy.” She couldn’t stop thinking about it. The koi braid. The rogue seahorse. The terrifyingly relatable Golem who just wanted a nap. And most of all… the mermaid. That sassy, sarcastic, glittery-scaled miracle of emotional support and mild snark. The way she smiled like she knew all your secrets and had ranked them from least to most cringey—but in a nice way. Margot sighed, long and dramatic, like she was auditioning for a sad coffee commercial. She didn’t even realize how long she’d been staring out the window until her neighbor Todd waved from across the street. She waved back without looking, accidentally knocking over a jar of expired honey. It oozed onto the counter in a slow, poetic sort of way. Margot stared at it. She was pretty sure it was judging her. Later that evening, she stood in the kitchen holding a new tea blend she’d bought out of pure spite. It had a watercolor label featuring a fox in a bowler hat and promised things like “clarity,” “inner sparkle,” and “tasteful epiphanies.” Margot didn’t trust it. But she brewed it anyway. This time, she poured slowly. Clockwise. Very deliberately. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She watched the leaves swirl and settle. The color shifted to a familiar peachy hue. She whispered, “Steepacia?” The water glimmered. Nothing happened for a long moment. Then, just as she leaned back in disappointment, something tiny bobbed to the surface. A seahorse. Wearing sunglasses. It gave her a curt nod, did a dramatic backflip, and vanished again. Margot gasped, almost dropped the cup—and then laughed. A big, ridiculous, snorty laugh that echoed through her apartment and startled the cat into knocking over an entire shelf of scented candles. It felt good. A laugh soaked in bubble bath memories and kelp-harp music. A laugh that said, “Yeah, I’m probably not okay, but who is? At least I’ve got interdimensional sea friends now.” That night, she dreamt of spa mimosas, citrus islands, and mermaid sarcasm so sharp it could slice through imposter syndrome like a butter knife through warm brie. She woke up refreshed in the only way someone can be after confronting their own existential nonsense via magical beverage. From then on, Margot kept a shelf of strange teas—anything with mysterious names or packaging that seemed a little too quirky to be legal. She learned to pour slowly. To stir with care. And every now and then, when she really needed it, the tea would shimmer. Sometimes she’d see the mermaid again—lounging in her cup like royalty with a minor hangover, tossing sass like it was seafoam. They’d chat. Or fight. Or sit in silence, sipping cucumber kelp lattes from mugs made of rainbow clamshells. It didn’t matter. Because what mattered was this: Somewhere between loose-leaf lunacy and self-discovery, Margot had found the weird, magical truth of herself. Emotional ballast. Chaos whisperer. Lady of the Leaves. And she never drank bagged tea again.     Take a Little Magic Home with You If “Teatime Tides” made you giggle-snort, crave mermaid mimosas, or consider emotionally bonding with your teacup, you might just need a little piece of this dreamy nonsense in your real life. Bring the charm and sparkle of Margot’s interdimensional adventure into your world with our curated collection of metal prints, acrylic gallery panels, or even a cheeky tote bag to carry your tea and secrets in style. Feeling puzzly? Get hands-on with the full tea-venture in our jigsaw puzzle. Or for the serial sippers and daydream doodlers, grab a sticker and slap some whimsy on your laptop, journal, or next questionable decision. Every item is brewed with care, sass, and just a hint of lavender magic. Because let’s face it—you deserve more sparkle in your tea breaks.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Unicorn Keeper

Deep in the Thistlewhack Woodlands, just past the grumbling bogs and that one suspiciously carnivorous mushroom grove, lived a girl named Marnie Pickleleaf. Now, Marnie wasn’t your usual woodland creature—no sir. She was a certified, broom-carrying, opinion-having fairy-child with a mouth too big for her wingspan and an unfortunate allergy to fairy dust. Which was, frankly, ironic. But the real kicker? Marnie had recently been promoted to Unicorn Keeper, Third Class (Provisional, Non-Salaried). The unicorn in question was named Gloompuddle. He was majestic in that "oh he’s been in the mead again" sort of way—ivory white, shimmering hooves, a spiraled horn so pristine it looked like it had never been used to skewer a single goblin (false; it had). Gloompuddle came with a floral garland, a chronic case of dramatic sighing, and what Marnie referred to as “emotional flatulence” — not dangerous, just deeply inconvenient during polite conversation. Now, one does not become a Unicorn Keeper on purpose. Marnie had tripped over a binding circle at precisely the wrong moment while chasing a rebellious broom, muttered a few creative curses, and accidentally formed an eternal pact. Gloompuddle, overhearing the spell, had dramatically swiveled his head and declared, “At last, someone who sees the torment in my soul!” It was downhill from there. Their bond was sealed with a headbutt, a sprinkle of rose petals, and a 48-page care manual that immediately self-destructed. Marnie had many questions—none of them answered. Instead, she received a rope lead made of cloud-thread, which the unicorn immediately tried to eat. And so their companionship began. Every morning, Marnie swept the golden leaves off Gloompuddle’s path with her enchanted (and slightly sarcastic) broom named Cheryl. Cheryl disapproved of the unicorn and once muttered, “Oh look, Mr. Glitterbutt needs walking again,” but she complied. Mostly. Gloompuddle, on the other hoof, had opinions. Many. He disliked wet leaves, dry leaves, leaves that rustled, squirrels with attitude, and anything that wasn't chilled elderberry mousse. He also had a habit of stepping dramatically onto hilltops and shouting, “I am the axis upon which fate turns!” followed by an awkward tumble when his hoof caught a pinecone. Still, something curious began to bloom in the crisp autumn air. A shared rhythm. A silly little dance between a cranky unicorn and a determined girl. Gloompuddle would roll his eyes and follow her broom-sweep trail. Marnie would scowl and stuff his mane full of forest flowers, muttering about freeloading equines with no concept of personal space. But they never left each other's side. On the eleventh day of their accidental bond, Gloompuddle sneezed glitter all over her face. Marnie, furious, chased him three miles with a pail. It was the first time either of them laughed in years. That evening, with the forest painted in gold and cider-scented wind curling through the trees, Marnie looked up at him. “Maybe you’re not the worst unicorn I’ve been soulbound to,” she muttered. Gloompuddle blinked. “You’ve had others?” “Only in my dreams,” she said, scratching his neck. “But you’d hate them. They were punctual.” And for the first time, Gloompuddle didn’t sigh. He simply stood there—quiet, still—and let her fingers rest between the knots of his mane. The kind of silence that meant something sacred. Or possibly gas. By their third week together, Marnie had taken to wearing a permanent scowl and a necklace made of dried apple cores and glitter—both byproducts of her daily unicorn wrangling. Gloompuddle, meanwhile, had developed a fondness for performing interpretive dances in the glade at sunset. These involved a lot of stomping, whinnying, and slow-motion tail flicks that sent entire families of field mice into therapy. It had become clear that their bond wasn’t just emotional—it was logistical. Marnie couldn’t go more than twenty paces without being yanked off her feet by the cloud-thread rope, which had the spiritual elasticity of a caffeine-addicted slingshot. Meanwhile, Gloompuddle couldn’t eat anything without Marnie reading the ingredients aloud like a suspicious mother with a gluten allergy. They were stuck with each other like gum to the underside of destiny’s sandal. One cool, mist-hugged morning, Marnie discovered the true horror of her new role: seasonal molting. Gloompuddle’s coat, once pristine and glowing with unicorny elegance, began shedding in massive floofs. Entire foxes could've been assembled from the tufts blowing across the field. Marnie tried sweeping it up, but Cheryl—the broom—refused. "Not my job," Cheryl said flatly. "I don’t do dander. I am a flooring specialist, not your mythical livestock stylist." Left with no choice, Marnie fashioned the fluff into various accessories: a scarf, a dramatic monocle moustache, even a questionable pair of earmuffs she sold at the local Goblin Flea Market (no goblins were pleased). Gloompuddle, vain as he was, spent hours grooming himself with a discarded fork he found by the wishing well, claiming it gave him “volume.” And then came The Great Snorting Festival. Every year, in a deeply underwhelming part of the woods known as Flatulence Hollow, creatures from across the realms gathered for a grand contest involving feats of nasal flair. Gloompuddle, hearing about the event from a gossiping badger, insisted they attend. “My nostrils are sonnets made flesh,” he proclaimed, striking a pose so dramatic a nearby oak tree fainted. Marnie reluctantly agreed, mostly because the prize was a year’s supply of enchanted oats and a coupon for one free de-worming. Upon arrival, they were greeted by a banner that read: “LET THE SNORTING BEGIN” and a centaur DJ named Blasterhoof. The crowd roared. A troll juggled hedgehogs. A kobold sneezed and caused a minor landslide. It was chaos. When Gloompuddle’s turn came, he stepped onto the mossy stage with the gravity of a war general. The hush was palpable. He inhaled. He paused. He aimed both nostrils toward the moon and SNORTED with such ferocity that several small birds un-birthed themselves and a druid’s wig flew off. The judges gasped. A nymph fainted. Someone’s goat proposed marriage to a chair. They won, naturally. Gloompuddle was given a golden tissue and a crown made entirely of sneeze-blown dandelions. Marnie held up the prize bag and grinned. “Now that’s some fine oat money,” she whispered. Gloompuddle nuzzled her cheek and promptly sneezed directly into her hair. It glittered. She sighed. Cheryl wheezed from laughter. On the way back to their glen, Marnie felt something strange. Contentment? Possibly gas. But also… pride? She looked up at Gloompuddle, who was humming a tune from a musical he wrote in his head called “Horned and Fabulous.” She laughed. He side-eyed her and said, “You know you love me.” “I tolerate you professionally,” she replied. “At great psychic cost.” Yet as the crisp twilight settled in, and the fireflies painted lazy constellations in the air, she felt that weird, quiet magic that only comes when life has spun out of control in just the right way. The kind of chaos that feels like home. They reached the glade. Gloompuddle did one last interpretive tail twirl. Cheryl muttered something about unionizing. And Marnie? She looked up at the sky, stretched her arms wide, and yelled into the wind, “I am the Keeper of the Uncontainable! Also I smell like sneeze glitter and regret!” The wind didn’t answer. But the unicorn beside her snorted approvingly, and that, somehow, was enough. It was sometime between the Harvest Moon and the Night of Unsolicited Goblin Poetry that things began to shift between Marnie and Gloompuddle. Subtly at first. Like the moment she stopped complaining when he trampled the herb garden (again) and instead calmly replanted the thyme with a muttered “we never liked it anyway.” Or the time Gloompuddle started using his horn not to theatrically skewer tree bark in protest of his oats, but to delicately hold open Cheryl’s instruction manual so Marnie could finally read the chapter titled: “Handling Magical Beasts Without Losing Your Mind or Your Eyebrows.” Their rhythm wasn’t perfect. It never would be. He still had opinions about atmospheric pressure and how it should “respect his mane,” and she still hadn’t figured out how to bathe a unicorn without getting waterboarded by his tail. But something gentle bloomed between them—an accidental symphony of shared chaos. And then came the Flying Potato Crisis. It began, as most catastrophes do, with a bet. A gnome in a pub challenged Marnie to launch a potato “as far as a pixie's resentment." She accepted, obviously. Gloompuddle, offended at not being consulted first, added a magical twist: he charged the potato with unstable unicorn magic—normally used only in extreme rituals or soap-making. When launched from Cheryl’s broomstick-catapult, the potato tore across the sky, split the clouds, and hit a passing wyvern named Jeff square in the unmentionables. Jeff was not pleased. He declared a Writ of Winged Vengeance and descended on Thistlewhack with the fury of a thousand passive-aggressive dinner guests. “I will turn your glade into mulch!” he roared, flames licking his fangs. Villagers screamed. Pixies fainted. An elf tried to sue someone preemptively. But Marnie didn’t run. Neither did Gloompuddle. Instead, they stood side by side—one with a broom, the other with a horn, both slightly damp from the morning dew and their mutual emotional avoidance. “Remember that headbutt spell that bonded us?” Marnie asked, raising an eyebrow. “The one involving eternal soul-tethering and seasonal glitter rash?” “Yeah. Let’s do it again. But angrier.” And so they did. Gloompuddle lowered his horn. Marnie lifted her broom. Cheryl shrieked something about liability insurance. Together, they charged the wyvern, who paused—just for a moment—too confused by the sight of a girl and a unicorn screaming battle cries like “FELT HATS ARE A LIE” and “GOBLINS CAN’T COUNT.” The impact was spectacular. Gloompuddle’s horn released a blast of incandescent energy shaped like an angry badger. Marnie leapt midair and clocked Jeff in the snout with Cheryl. The wyvern tumbled backward into a marsh, where a trio of offended frogs immediately sued him for pond trespass. Victory, as it turns out, smells like singed mane and triumphant sweat. The next day, the village threw a party in their honor. There were cider fountains, reluctant bagpipes, and one very enthusiastic interpretive dance from Gloompuddle that ended with him wearing a flowerpot like a helmet. Marnie even got a plaque that read: “For Services to Unreasonable Heroism.” She hung it in their glade, right next to the place where Gloompuddle kept his emergency drama tiara. Later that evening, as the stars rolled out like spilled sugar across the velvet sky, Marnie sat on a mossy log, sipping lukewarm cider and watching Gloompuddle chase a confused moonbeam. Cheryl, exhausted and possibly drunk on proximity to nonsense, snoozed nearby. “You ever think about... the whole forever thing?” she asked, half to herself. Gloompuddle slowed his trot and trotted over. “You mean our unbreakable soul pact sealed by ancient forest magic and extreme glitter exposure?” “Yeah. That one.” He blinked, flicked his tail, and said, “Only every day. But I think I like it now. Even the sneezing.” Marnie snorted. “You only say that because I stopped braiding your tail like a court jester.” “I liked the bells.” They sat in silence, watching fireflies drift past like wandering punctuation marks. Then, slowly, Gloompuddle lowered his head, touching his horn to her forehead—just as he had on the very first day. “Unicorn Keeper,” he said softly. “You’ve kept more than you know.” And just like that, the air shimmered. Not with magic, not with prophecy—but with something quieter. Friendship forged in foolishness. Love made not from longing, but loyalty. A keeper, and the kept. Companions who never asked for each other, but found a kind of forever in the ridiculous, anyway. “Want to go launch another potato?” she whispered, smiling. “Only if we aim for someone named Carl.” And off they went into the moon-touched night: a girl, a unicorn, and a broom with a mild hangover—ready for whatever dumb, dazzling thing came next.     If this ridiculous and heartfelt adventure between Marnie and Gloompuddle tickled your funny bone—or warmed that cozy corner of your heart where unicorn glitter and emotional potato warfare live—bring the magic home. Our official The Unicorn Keeper collection is now available at shop.unfocussed.com, featuring high-quality fantasy artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Wrap yourself in autumnal whimsy with a fleece blanket as soft as unicorn fluff, or send someone a little enchanted nonsense with a greeting card worthy of magical correspondence. Decorate your space with a fantasy poster print that captures the glowing gold of Thistlewhack’s enchanted forest, or go rustic with a textured wood print perfect for any magical nook. Whether you're a lifelong fantasy fan, a secret unicorn believer, or someone who just appreciates emotionally dramatic equines, The Unicorn Keeper collection is a whimsical tribute to the joy of unlikely friendship. Explore the full line and let a little magic into your space.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Love Beneath the Morning Glory

The Bloom Boom Affair It began on a wet Tuesday. Not the dramatic, lightning-splitting, thunder-belching kind of wet. No. This was the gentle kind of wet that makes flowers open shyly, moss turn smug, and frogs feel just a little sexier than usual. It was precisely the kind of afternoon where moist was no longer a punchline—it was a lifestyle. Our scene opens on a mossy stump that locals call “The Velvet Throne.” Perched atop it were two frogs—no ordinary amphibians, mind you. These were tree frogs, jewel-toned and glistening like jade marbles dunked in desire. One was named Julio, and the other, Blossom. She had the kind of stare that made crickets rethink their life choices, and he had thighs that could crush a lily pad with the power of poetry. They weren’t always lovers. They started as polite neighbors who’d once locked eyes over a shared raindrop, both sipping from opposite ends like an amphibian Lady and the Tramp. Things escalated when Blossom—ever the unconventional romantic—built Julio a miniature umbrella out of magnolia petals and twine. He swooned so hard he nearly fell into the mud. She made him soup. They began “meeting for dew” under a canopy of morning glory petals, and like any sensible frog, they started avoiding eye contact in public just to keep the village gossip juicy. Now here they were—huddled beneath the curved embrace of a fresh bloom as a light drizzle tap-tapped overhead. The flower’s funnel acted as nature’s love motel, complete with ambient lighting, floral scent, and a gentle hum from a confused bee stuck in the next bloom over. "So," Blossom croaked with a sly smirk, adjusting her daisy tiara just so. "You gonna kiss me, or are we just here to exchange pollen and disappointment?" Julio's throat puffed out like a plush balloon. “I was waiting for the rain to set the mood.” “Honey,” she drawled, leaning in, “this whole forest is setting the mood.” She wasn’t wrong. Even the fireflies were flickering suggestively. A distant owl hooted the opening bars of a Marvin Gaye song. Somewhere, a mushroom shivered with anticipation. He finally leaned closer. “Blossom… if you were a rain droplet, I’d let you fall on my tongue first.” She blinked. “Julio… that’s the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” “But did it work?” She grinned, bit her bottom lip, and whispered, “It really, really did.” Outside the bloom, the drizzle turned to a light rain. Inside, a romance unfurled—slow, sticky, and slightly steamy. But of course, you know this is only the beginning… Tongues, Tea, and Trouble on the Throne They say love is patient, love is kind. But in the bog behind Bramblebrush Hollow, love is wet, weird, and just a little bit wicked. Under the soft arch of their morning glory hideaway, Blossom and Julio had moved from shy glances to full-on knee-touching. In frog terms, that’s practically third base. And on this particular day, Julio wasn’t playing defense. “You ever think,” he murmured, tracing a dewy fingertip along the curve of Blossom’s spine, “that we were destined to meet under this very bloom? Like the universe croaked us into existence just for this moment?” Blossom snorted, spraying a mist of pollen out of her nostrils. “Julio, you romantic dirt waffle. That was either the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard or an allergic reaction to fate.” He gave a low, amused ribbit. “I’m serious. The flower, the rain, us. It’s poetic.” “Poetic?” she grinned. “Julio, our first date ended with you mistaking a glowworm for a mint and projectile vomiting off a mushroom ledge. I had to bathe you in rainwater and ego-salve for half the night.” “And yet,” he said, with that glimmer in his pupils, “you came back for more.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile lingered. “Don’t flatter yourself, pond prince. You owe me three fireflies, a thistle massage, and emotional restitution for that time you told my mother I burp like a duck.” “Your mom laughed.” “She laughed because she thought you were a joke.” The bickering had that soft-lipped, comfortable cadence only lovers and siblings could master—a blend of fondness, venom, and shared inside jokes delivered with the finesse of verbal judo. But beneath the sass, under that veil of floral flirtation, something else simmered: want. Real, gooey, hopelessly swamp-scented want. The rain thickened. So did the air between them. Julio leaned in, this time not for drama but for truth. “You scare me, Blossom.” She tilted her head. “Because I’m hot? Or because I’m a highly emotional frog with complex needs and a running tab at the aphid bar?” “Yes.” They paused. A beetle flew past. A snail honked (or something vaguely honk-adjacent). The forest didn’t care about their romantic tension. But oh, it was watching. Julio reached for her hand. “Look. All jokes aside, I think I could stay under this flower with you forever. Like… retire here. Grow mold together. Raise tiny tadpoles and name them after lesser-known Greek deities.” Blossom blinked. “Did you just propose... cohabitation?” “Maybe.” “Julio, we’ve only been snogging for eight sun cycles.” “That’s like, five frog years.” She cocked a brow. “Don’t bring pseudo-science into our romance.” “I’m just saying… I like the idea of forever with you.” Blossom softened. She hated when he got like this—earnest, sweet, dreamy-eyed like he’d swallowed a poetry book and half a cloud. And she especially hated how much it made her heart go bloop. “Okay,” she said finally. “But if we’re doing this, I have rules.” Julio sat up straighter. “Name them.” “One,” she said, holding up a delicate finger, “no tongue fights before dusk. I have a schedule.” “Reasonable.” “Two. You clean the flower. Daily. Pollen is not an aesthetic, it’s an allergen.” “Done.” “Three. If you ever flirt with that flat-faced toad from Lilypatch again, I will roast you alive and serve you to a stork.” Julio blinked. “Understood.” “And four—no surprise mating songs. If you’re gonna sing, I want choreography and backup crickets.” “I’ll call the band.” They sealed it with a kiss. It was not dainty. It was sticky and weird and made a nearby caterpillar gasp. But it was theirs. Just as they began to settle into the newfound bliss of shared expectations and dangerously implied commitment, a new sound split the air: a squelch, followed by a high-pitched titter and the unmistakable voice of Velma—Blossom’s rival, frenemy, and occasional mycological consultant. “Ohhhhhh no,” Blossom whispered, panic rising faster than sap in spring. Julio peeked out of the bloom. “She’s bringing her entourage.” “The Giggling Tadpoles?” “All six.” Velma emerged with the kind of strut that only came from eating your ex’s best friend and posting about it on MudTok. She wore a shimmering fern frond as a cape and had a smug glow like she’d just seduced someone’s boyfriend—and maybe she had. “WELL WELL WEEEELL,” Velma chirped, clearly having rehearsed that line all morning. “If it isn’t Miss Morning Glory herself, playing house with Loverboy Julio on the Velvet Throne.” Blossom didn’t blink. “Velma. How’s that rash?” Julio winced. The Giggling Tadpoles gasped in unison. Velma hissed, “That was seasonal and you know it.” “Seasonal like your mood swings?” Blossom asked sweetly. The rain slowed, but the tension crackled like static in the moss. Velma grinned, dangerously wide. “Just dropping by to tell you there’s a little change coming to the Hollow. Some new blood. Some French blood.” Julio gulped. “You don’t mean—” Velma nodded. “That’s right, cherubs. A new frog in town. He wears a beret. He speaks in syllables you can taste. And rumor has it…” she leaned in, “he’s looking for a muse.” All eyes turned to Blossom. “Well, mon dieu,” she said. “Guess things are about to get sticky.” Berets, Betrayals, and the Bloom of Truth By the time the French frog arrived, the Hollow had already spiraled into scandal. Word had spread like fungal rot on a damp log: a mysterious, velvet-voiced stranger from “La Mare des Poètes” (translation: ‘Pond of the Poets,’ though some locals insisted it was just a fancy mud puddle) had sashayed into Bramblebrush Hollow looking for his “inspiration.” His name? Jean-Luc Tadreau. His resume? Former lily model, amateur haikuist, full-time homewrecker. Jean-Luc was tall, lean, and glistened like a freshly buttered baguette. His beret perched jauntily between his eyes, and his voice was so smooth it made slime trails look rough by comparison. And when he crooned? Lawd. Even the rocks blushed. Blossom was not impressed. “He smells like fermented lavender and pretension,” she muttered, perched beside Julio under the morning glory, sipping nectar straight from a flower straw. “He bowed to me and kissed his own hand,” Julio grumbled. “Then winked at a mushroom.” “That’s not charisma, that’s a fungal kink.” But the Hollow didn’t care. Velma had gone full PR blitz—posting dreamy sketches of Jean-Luc on bark scrolls, hyping up his “one-night-only interpretive dance tribute to love and amphibian freedom.” The Giggling Tadpoles had formed a fan club. Frogs lined up around the swamp to hear him whisper sweet nothings about existential rain and sensual algae. And worst of all? He was actively pursuing Blossom. It started with sonnets. Then escalated to interpretive staring contests. Then… the scandal. A public gift—a golden beetle wrapped in lotus petals delivered during morning dew hour, in front of Julio. “What the actual frog,” Julio had croaked, staring at the sparkling beetle like it was a live grenade with wings. “That’s our spot. OUR BLOOM!” Blossom held up her webbed hands. “I didn’t invite him. The beetle was… unsolicited.” “So was my existential crisis, but here we are!” The bloom wilted. Figuratively and literally. Blossom felt caught. Sure, Julio was loud, emotional, and once mistook a pinecone for a rival. But he was hers. Jean-Luc? He was every wrong decision wrapped in pheromones and poetry. A walking red flag that spoke in riddles and probably exfoliated. So she made a choice. She decided to destroy Jean-Luc the only way she knew how—publicly, dramatically, and with questionable ethics. The next evening, under the largest lily pad in the Hollow, Jean-Luc hosted a “soirée of the senses.” There was aphid wine. A glowworm strobe show. Someone set up a bubble machine. He was mid-monologue—something about the aching sweetness of forbidden love—when Blossom slinked into view wearing her daisy crown, a sly smile, and a glint of theatrical vengeance in her eye. “Jean-Luc,” she purred. “Sing me something. Something... real.” He did. A crooning ballad about moons and longing and the sorrow of amphibian monogamy. Frogs swooned. A snail wept into his leaf napkin. When he finished, Blossom stepped forward and kissed him. Full on. Wet. No tongue. But full. The crowd erupted in gasps. Julio, lurking nearby, dropped his nectar cup. Velma screamed “YESSSS!” in a way that scared two newts into fleeing the state. Then Blossom turned, grinned at Jean-Luc, and slapped him across the cheek with a wet leaf. “That was for calling me your muse,” she snapped. “I’m not a canvas. I’m the whole damn gallery.” And with that, she turned on her heel and marched straight to Julio. He stared at her. “You kissed him.” “I know.” “You slapped him.” “Also true.” “You walked off like a queen.” “That’s just my gait, babe.” Julio crossed his arms. “Explain yourself.” “He needed to be publicly humbled. You needed to be reminded I’m completely, tragically into you. Also, you owe me a dance.” “A dance?” “Yup. Under our bloom. Right now.” She grabbed him by the webbing and pulled him beneath their favorite morning glory. The petals shimmered in the moonlight, heavy with rain and forgiveness. Music swelled—probably imagined, or possibly a cricket band with great acoustics. Julio wrapped his arms around her. “You’re insane.” “Thank you.” They swayed. Slowly. Goofily. Beautifully. Two frogs in love, ignoring the gossip, the chaos, the fungal influencers and pretentious poets. Just them, under their bloom. Wet. Weird. And exactly where they were meant to be. Outside, the Hollow returned to normal. Velma swore vengeance. Jean-Luc vanished into the mist, whispering something about a mysterious turtle named Solange. The Giggling Tadpoles rebranded as a jam band. But none of it mattered. Because love, real love, isn’t about drama or grand gestures. It’s about knowing who makes your heart croak loudest in the rain.     Take a piece of Bramblebrush Hollow home... Whether you want to wrap yourself in romance with this lush beach towel, hang a splash of whimsy in your den with a canvas print or tapestry, or simply send frog-loving friends a sweet reminder of soggy love with a greeting card, the magic of Julio and Blossom awaits. Bring home the bloom, the sass, and the sweet, sticky kiss of love beneath the morning glory.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Between Pencils and Planets

Froggert Van Toad and the Infinite Sketchpad By all accounts, Froggert Van Toad had lived a rather normal life for a frog who’d recently transcended dimensional boundaries via a raincloud. Not that he planned it. Froggert was, if anything, chronically unplanned. His days were normally spent slurping existential lattes on lily pads and sketching esoteric doodles that no one appreciated—least of all his cousin, Keith, who insisted Froggert get a "real job," like fly herding or insurance fraud. But Froggert was an artist. A philosopher. A fishless fisherman. And above all, an amphibian of radical optimism. So when a glowing planetary orb began weeping over his sketchbook one day—dripping cosmic tears onto his to-do list (which only said “nap” and “invent a new blue”)—Froggert didn’t flinch. He grabbed his favorite pencil, a stubby orange No. 3 with bite marks and delusions of grandeur, and dove right into the puddle. And that’s how he ended up here: fishing in a pond no bigger than a coaster, surrounded by office supplies, under a cloud that cried moonlight. He sat in his rolled-up shorts, water tickling his knees, casting his line into a miniature ecosystem populated by suspiciously judgmental goldfish. They blinked at him in passive-aggressive synchrony, as if to say, “You brought a reel into a metaphor?” But Froggert was unfazed. He’d seen worse critiques. That one time he submitted a sketch of a melancholy snail to the Prestigious Amphibian Arts Guild, they mailed back a single word: “why.” (Not “why?” Just “why.”) Now, he was determined. This wasn’t just a pond. This was the blank canvas between realities. The moist studio of the gods. The aquatic cradle of art itself. And Froggert would fish inspiration from it—hook, line, and overthinker’s spiral. Behind him, a stubby army of orange pencils stood like battalions of judgmental monks, whispering things like “perspective lines” and “remember shadows, idiot.” He ignored them. Froggert had more pressing concerns. Namely, what exactly was nibbling his bait… and whether or not it was the ghost of Van Gogh’s hamster, or just another manifestation of his imposter syndrome. The line tugged. His eyes widened. “Oh, it’s happening,” he muttered, gripping the reel like a frog possessed. “Either I’m about to catch the next great concept or a very angry cosmic metaphor.” From above, the cloud rumbled. Drops fell like glimmering commas, as if punctuation were raining directly onto his artistic block. Froggert smiled. “Come to papa,” he crooned to the void, “You’re either my muse or a fish with a graduate degree in chaos.” And then he pulled. The Fish, The Muse, and the Accidentally Erotic Eraser With a grunt that sounded suspiciously like a French exhale, Froggert tugged his line and reeled in... absolutely nothing. Nothing, but in a very specific way. It wasn't the absence of a fish that worried him. It was the *presence* of the absence. The line came back empty, yet shimmering—dripping with symbols that hadn't been invented yet, glowing in hues only visible after a double espresso and a full-on existential crisis. He blinked. Once. Twice. The air wobbled. Somewhere between the cloud and the pencils, a tiny trumpet made of watercolor sound blasted a four-note jingle he instinctively knew was titled “Bold Decision #6.” The pond rippled, and the goldfish formed the shape of a face. Her face. His muse. She emerged like a dream filtered through a Salvador Dalí colander—part fish, part frog, part celestial librarian. She had lips like an unspoken poem and gills that blushed when she noticed Froggert’s stare. In one delicate webbed hand, she held a scroll labeled “Plot Device”, and in the other, an iridescent eraser that radiated the sultry aura of forbidden grammar corrections. “Hello, Froggert,” she said, her voice a cross between jazz and a warning label. “I see you’ve been fishing again.” Froggert stood, wobbling slightly in the pond, pants soaked, posture heroic in the way that only extremely damp frogs can manage. “Muse,” he said breathlessly, adjusting his beret, which hadn’t been there moments ago. “You’ve returned. I feared you’d left me. You’ve been gone since the Great Sketchbook Fire of ’22.” “I had to,” she said. “You were still shading with a single light source like an amateur. And your metaphors? They were becoming… squishy.” He gasped, wounded. “Squishy?! That’s harsh coming from a woman who once used a walrus to symbolize late-stage capitalism.” She smiled coyly. “And it worked, didn’t it?” The goldfish nodded in unison like backup dancers with tenure. The Muse floated closer, and the pond deepened beneath her like the gravity of deadlines. She reached out with her eraser and touched Froggert lightly on the snout. His nose itched with the forgotten scent of acrylics and ambition. Around them, the pencils began to chant rhythmically, “DRAW, DRAW, DRAW,” like a cult of overly caffeinated art students. “You’ve been blocked,” she whispered. “Creatively. Emotionally. Aquatically.” “I know,” he croaked. “Ever since my last series—‘Anxious Gnomes in Business Casual’—got shredded in the gallery’s Yelp reviews, I haven’t been able to finish a single canvas. I just sit on my log, sip lukewarm inspiration, and yell at birds.” She laughed. The water giggled in sympathy. “You’ve forgotten why you create. It’s not about applause or reviews. It’s about process. Mystery. That delicious panic of not knowing what the hell you’re drawing until it stares back and says, ‘You missed a spot.’” Froggert blinked. “So… you’re saying I need to stop worrying about being brilliant and just make beautiful, weird nonsense?” She nodded. “Exactly. Now here—take this.” She handed him the eraser. As it touched his hand, the world shivered. Not violently. More like a flirty shimmy from a cosmic belly dancer. Instantly, Froggert was filled with memories—unfinished sketches, forgotten ideas, that one time he tried to animate spaghetti into a romantic lead. All of it. But now, he saw the value. The humor. The joy in the mess. “But wait,” he said, looking up, realization dawning like a sunrise painted by someone with access to very expensive light filters. “Why now? Why come back to me today?” Her expression softened. “Because, Froggert... the moon cried. And the moon only cries when a real artist is close to remembering who they are.” And then, just like that, she vanished—dissolving into the pond like watercolor in warm tea. The goldfish scattered, the cloud hiccupped, and the pencils screamed with fresh enthusiasm, now shouting, “EDIT! EDIT! EDIT!” Froggert stood alone, soaked and inspired, holding the sacred eraser and the line still shimmering with raw potential. He looked down at his feet, then at the sky, then at the empty canvas that had suddenly appeared on the grass beside him. He squinted at the canvas. It squinted back. “Okay,” he muttered. “Let’s make something… ridiculous.” The Exhibition at the Edge of the Desk Three days later, Froggert Van Toad had become a legend. Not in the mainstream sense. He hadn’t gone viral, nor been featured in any reputable galleries, nor even accepted into the local toad-based co-op (which had very strict “no dimension-hopping” bylaws). But in the hidden circles of interdimensional art critics, caffeine-fueled stationery supplies, and emotionally available goldfish, Froggert had ascended. It began with a single stroke—a chaotic, daring, slightly smudged line across the canvas. Then another. Then a furious explosion of colors that defied any wheel ever taught in art school. Froggert wasn’t just painting—he was exorcising doubt, romanticizing absurdity, and interrogating the myth of clean edges. The pond became his studio. The pencils? His choir. The cloud? A misty muse of background lighting. Each day, Froggert woke with dew on his snout, inspiration in his chest, and a dangerously erotic eraser tucked into his tiny toolbelt. He painted frogs as astronauts, bananas as philosophers, and fish as unfulfilled middle managers. He painted dreams that had no name and breakfast items with disturbing emotional baggage. One afternoon, he created a six-foot tall self-portrait made entirely of regret and glitter glue. The Muse reappeared briefly just to weep softly, fan herself with a palette, and disappear into the wallpaper. And then it happened. The cloud, in a particularly dramatic lightning-sneeze, unveiled a cosmic scroll: a gallery invitation addressed to “Froggert Van Toad, Artisan of Madness.” The location? The Edge of the Desk. The ultimate exhibition space—where the clutter ended and the void began. A place feared by dust bunnies and respected by rogue paperclips. Only the bravest creatives dared show their work there, teetering on the boundary of purpose and oblivion. Froggert accepted. Opening night was electric. The crowd—a curated mash of sapient staplers, depressed ink cartridges, origami swans with MFA degrees, and a talking cactus named Jim—gathered with baited breath and literal bait (there were snacks). A paper lantern orchestra hummed ambient jazz. Someone spilled chai on a crayon that immediately broke up with its label and swore off monogamy. Froggert arrived dressed in a dramatically flared bathrobe and mismatched galoshes. He held a martini made of melted snowflakes and bravado. Behind him stood his masterpieces, now elevated by string, glitter tape, and invisible emotional scaffolding. The crowd gasped. They gurgled. One staple fainted. A pair of thumbtacks whispered something scandalous and applauded with their pointy heads. And then the Muse returned. Not as a whisper or a ripple—but as a full-bodied hallucination wearing sequins, eyeliner, and the unmistakable aura of a metaphor that got tenure. She approached Froggert, eyes glinting with admiration and a hint of unfinished business. “You did it,” she said. “You turned doubt into spectacle.” Froggert croaked softly. “I had help. And also, possibly a mild head injury.” “It suits you.” They stood in silence for a moment, staring at the final piece: a chaotic, iridescent pondscape titled “Hope Wears Galoshes.” “So,” Froggert ventured, twirling the eraser in his fingers, “you gonna vanish again or…?” She smirked. “Only if you forget what this is really about.” “Art?” “No,” she said, leaning in close, her voice like soft thunder. “Permission.” Froggert nodded slowly, like a philosopher in slow motion or a frog too proud to admit he just got goosebumps. The cloud wept in joy. The pond burbled in applause. A rogue mechanical pencil proposed marriage to a sentient paintbrush. The Edge of the Desk shimmered with possibility, just as a nearby drawer yawned open and revealed an entire dimension of unsorted inspiration waiting for its day in the sun. Froggert took the Muse’s hand. “Let’s get weird,” he said. And they vanished into the puddle, giggling. The End… and also, just the beginning.     Bring Froggert's universe home with you! If you’ve laughed, lingered, or just slightly fallen in love with the world of Froggert Van Toad, why not invite a piece of his whimsical pondscape into your own space? From galaxy-kissed metal prints to dreamy canvas artwork, every detail of “Between Pencils and Planets” is ready to leap from the page and onto your wall. Feeling cozy? Drift into inspiration with our luxurious art tapestries or dry off from your next muse-induced pond dive with our irresistibly soft beach towels. Want to send a little creative chaos to someone special? Share the story with a printed greeting card that says, “I believe in amphibians, and you.” Explore all available formats at shop.unfocussed.com and let the muse move you.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

A Moment Between Waves

The Ledge Between Two Worlds Beneath a sea that never stayed still and a sky that never quite forgot her name, there lay a ledge — weathered by tide, forgotten by time — where the mermaid came to sit. She wasn’t one of those syrupy songbirds from surface myths, the kind sailors scribbled into rum-soaked journals. No. This one was real, and when she moved, the water adjusted its entire attitude to accommodate her elegance. She called herself Mirielle, but only when she felt like talking. Which wasn’t often. And certainly not to sea gulls, dolphins, or washed-up poets. Her voice was not meant for crowds or conquests. It was the kind of voice used once, echoed forever, and then put away like velvet you only dare touch with clean hands. She sat now in that between-time just after the sun lost its bite but before it surrendered to the moon — her tail curled over the stone’s edge, scales twinkling in metallic defiance of twilight. Her bralette, made of seagrass embroidery and pearls that had never been owned, shimmered like something stolen from a queen's dream. And that hair... gods help you if you tried to describe it. Not gold, not blonde, not light — just sunlight caught in a net, cascading like slow honey and smelling faintly of brine and lavender. Every evening, she came here to not quite think. To not quite remember. It was dangerous, you see, for a siren to remember too much. The sea takes as easily as it gives, and nostalgia is a luxury for those who don’t bleed salt. Still, tonight felt different. The air buzzed faintly with knowing. Not prophecy — she hated prophecy, too dramatic. No, this was the hum of a whisper trying to happen. The kind of magic that only showed up when you weren’t trying to impress it. A flirtatious breeze teased the edge of her ear, and she rolled her eyes at it with mock offense. “Charming,” she muttered, brushing back a loose curl. “You must be new here.” The sea rippled in answer — not quite applause, not quite warning. Behind her, the first star blinked open. Below her, something stirred. And for the first time in a century, Mirielle did not immediately look away. The Something Below It wasn’t often that Mirielle let herself feel curious. Curiosity was a luxury of things with feet and clocks and furniture. The sea — her mother, cradle, and sometimes jailor — didn’t lend itself to the kind of questions that got satisfying answers. Ask it where something went, and it would burble. Ask it why, and it would rise into a storm. Ask it for love, and it would give you pearls shaped like regrets. But that ripple below her… that stirring. It wasn’t typical. And she knew typical. She’d made a very intentional study of it over the past few decades, lounging on this same slab of stone and watching the surface world through half-lidded lashes. Mermaids weren’t known for their patience — not the old blood like hers — but Mirielle had a particular fondness for ignoring expectations. It was her second-favorite pastime, right behind grooming barnacles off her tail with a gold comb stolen from a pirate who’d called her “little lady.” (He didn’t need it after that.) She leaned forward now, chest lifting as her weight shifted, and her hair followed like a faithful silk banner. The sea below remained hush-hush, coy as ever, but the tension in the water tickled her skin with electricity. Something was waiting. Not watching — no, that was too simple. This was the type of presence that rearranged molecules by being. Not predatory, not friendly. Just… significant. And then she heard it. Not with ears, not exactly. It was a vibration that filtered through the marrow. A soundless sound, like a memory of music that had never been played. Her breath hitched, and she sat upright, tail curling with a flick of uncertainty. For a creature so used to control — of currents, of moods, of men — this little hiccup of vulnerability felt oddly thrilling. She didn’t dive. Not right away. She stood instead. Her upper body graceful and languid, her tail flaring out like a crescent moon dipped in abalone and stardust. The ledge was narrow, and the moment more so. If she moved, it would pass. If she hesitated, it would deepen. “Well,” she said, adjusting one of her earrings — an unnecessary gesture, but fashion demanded presence. “If you’re going to lurk dramatically, at least offer a girl a drink.” Something below chuckled. Not a voice. A chuckle. It rose up through the kelp beds like a bubble of mirth and mischief. Mirielle's brow arched, and she allowed a smile to slip, sharp as a tidepool oyster. "Ah. One of those." She rolled her shoulders, releasing sea dust in glimmers that caught the dying light. "I should’ve worn the sapphires." The chuckle became motion. A spiral in the water. A glimmer of gold... no, copper... no, something elemental. It coiled upward with the intention of being seen. Mirielle held her ground, tail sweeping behind her like a royal train. Her fingers twitched slightly — not from fear, but from the forgotten excitement of newness. This wasn’t a passing dolphin with too much flirt. This wasn’t an overly enchanted kelpie with boundary issues. This was Other. And he was surfacing. As the head broke the surface, she blinked — not in surprise, but in appraisal. Her kind didn’t gasp. Gasping was for damsels and fools. But what rose before her was... let’s say… “aesthetically inconvenient.” He wasn’t beautiful in the way mortals write sonnets about. Not the sharp-cheeked, velvet-voiced prince of tired legends. No, this one was carved from storm wood and low thunder. Hair like burnt kelp twisted into a crown of sea-glass. Skin dark like basalt, dappled with phosphorescent scars that whispered history. And eyes — oh gods — eyes like green lightning stalled mid-storm. He didn't speak. Not yet. Just looked. And Mirielle felt a part of herself stretch in recognition — the old part, the part that predated languages, the part that had once sung ships into ruin and then wept when no one remembered the song. Finally, he broke the surface fully, his tail only hinted at — long, shadow-dark, edged with fins so fine they might’ve been memories. He bowed, not deeply, but with that maddening, impossible kind of charm that you’d slap if it weren’t so magnetic. "Evening," he said, his voice rough like coral but warm, as if apology and desire were sipping wine together behind his teeth. "Do you always rehearse your wit aloud, or was I just lucky tonight?" Mirielle smirked, tilting her head as her curls floated with studied grace. "You think this is wit?" she said. "Darling, I’m still in warm-up mode. Stick around, and I might actually flirt." His grin was all tide and trouble. "Good," he said. "I have nowhere else to be. You?" Mirielle turned back toward the ledge, then to the sea, then to him. Her tail flicked, iridescent and electric. She could’ve swum away. She often did. But tonight? No. Tonight the waves were still, and the moment held its breath. She slipped into the water like a secret too delicious to keep. Tides That Speak in Silence The sea, when it chooses, can become a cathedral. And on this night, as two currents merged beneath the moonlight, it became a sanctuary for things unspoken. Mirielle slipped beneath the surface with the ease of ritual, of muscle memory, of a soul too familiar with solitude to ever truly sink. Beside her, the stranger matched her glide — a little too well. No awkward splash. No giddy swirl. Just the elegant presence of something old that remembered how to move like music. They didn’t speak at first. Not with words. But their bodies wrote stories in ripples — dancing through pockets of warmer water, flirting in eddies that spun slow and sensuous. The reef below caught glimmers of their passing, the coral sighing as if it had waited long for such a ballet. And above them, the waves forgot to crest. The ocean held its hush. It was Mirielle who broke the quiet, eventually. With her, silence was never passive — it was curated. And she was done curating. “So,” she said, circling him like a cat considering a nap in your lap. “Are you cursed, enchanted, running from a prophecy, or just tragically misunderstood?” He smiled, slow and deliberate. “Option five.” “There isn’t an option five.” “There is now.” He flicked his tail, and she felt the tug of his current brush hers. “I’m just here. That’s all. Just… here.” Mirielle narrowed her eyes. “People don’t just ‘be’ here. This reef? It’s... personal.” “Maybe I’m personal too,” he said, his voice smooth as pearl, with an undertow that tugged at her in ways she didn’t like admitting. “Or maybe you’ve been waiting for me.” She scoffed — a delicate, musical scoff, but a scoff nonetheless. “I don’t wait. I haunt.” And that made him laugh — a proper, belly-deep laugh that made a school of neon fish scatter in shock. “Gods. You’re worse than they said.” That caught her off-guard. “Who’s they?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swam deeper, into a trench where the light shimmered like champagne through a blown-glass flute. She followed — irritated, intrigued. The trench opened into a cave-mouth she’d never seen before, its walls slick with black coral and humming with old magic. Not the kind that shimmered. The kind that pulsed. “They,” he said at last, “are the ones who remember the names even when the surface forgets the songs. They said there was a woman here — a mermaid, yes — but more than that. A keeper of stories too painful to write down. A girl made of silence and skin and sunlight who never asks for anything... but always knows when you owe her.” Mirielle stilled. The water grew still with her. “And what do you think?” she asked. He turned slowly in the blue-dark of the cave. Glints of gold dust swirled around him like the echo of a sunbeam. “I think,” he said, “that maybe I’m here to give something. And maybe you’re finally ready to take it.” Her laugh was quieter now. “Bold of you. Assuming I want anything from anyone.” “No,” he said. “Not anyone. Just me.” She swam closer, not realizing she was doing it. She could smell him now — like petrichor and brine and something ancient. Her hand rose, and so did his. Fingers met. No sparks. No lightning. Just the warmth of shared loneliness. “You’re late,” she said. “I’m not,” he said, leaning in with a smile that made even the shadows lean closer. “You were just early.” And when they kissed — because of course they kissed — the ocean turned inward to listen. It wasn’t a desperate, tangled kiss of stories needing endings. No, this was slow. Whimsical. Soft around the edges like a melody hummed through seagrass. It wasn’t a promise. It was a beginning. A yes that didn’t need to be said out loud. Later, they floated in the shallows, tails draped like tapestries. His arm rested behind her head as if he’d always meant to place it there. She traced lazy circles in the water with a single fin. “You know,” she said, voice like velvet dipped in sarcasm, “this doesn’t mean I’m going to stop being difficult.” “Oh, I’m counting on it,” he replied, eyes half-lidded in bliss. “I hate easy.” A silence passed — not the awkward kind. The full kind. The kind that stretched itself out like a well-fed cat and soaked in the moonlight. She looked at him. “Stay.” He didn’t answer with words. He just didn’t leave.     Bring a Moment of Magic Into Your World Inspired by the serene beauty and mysterious grace of our story, A Moment Between Waves is now available as a selection of high-quality photographic art products from Unfocussed.com. Whether you’re gifting a fellow dreamer or treating yourself to something enchanting, these items are designed to bring the magic home. Wall Tapestry – Let your walls breathe with oceanic elegance. This tapestry turns any room into a storybook shoreline. Greeting Card – Share a message wrapped in myth. Perfect for birthdays, soul notes, or “just because” enchantments. Framed Art Print – Showcase the story’s essence with a stunning, gallery-quality print that brings ethereal charm to any wall. Beach Towel – Make your next shore visit a siren's dream with this lush, full-color towel that’s as practical as it is poetic. Explore the full A Moment Between Waves collection and let the magic drift into your everyday.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Fiery Pout

The Temper of Twigsnap Hollow It was the first crisp day of autumn in Twigsnap Hollow, and that meant three things: the leaves were aflame with color, the squirrels were drunk on fermented acorns, and Fizzlewick the Tiny Brat Dragon was in a full-blown sulk. Perched on his usual spot—the fifth knotted limb of the great Maplebeard tree—Fizzlewick glared at the world with a righteous fury only a baby dragon with a mild superiority complex and short legs could possess. His wings were twitching. His tail, coiled like a sassy pretzel, flicked aggressively every third second. And most notably, his arms were folded so tight that his little talons squeaked against his own scales. This, dear reader, was a *statement pose*. “I said cinnamon bark muffins, not ginger root scones,” he muttered to absolutely no one except a leaf that had the audacity to fall in his direction. He scorched it with a tiny puff of smoke and grinned. That would teach nature to be insolent. You see, Fizzlewick had what the woodland creatures called “Main Character Energy,” though he firmly believed he was simply “the only one here with taste.” Ever since he’d hatched in the hollow two years ago during a thunderstorm (on purpose, according to him), he'd carved out a reputation as both the littlest dragon and the biggest handful east of the Glowroot Ridge. He ran a tight emotional schedule: tantrum at dawn, sulk at midday, petty vengeance by sundown. It was exhausting being a misunderstood genius with adorable rage issues. Today, however, his drama had a very specific catalyst. Mapleberry the chipmunk—who he had allowed into his inner circle of trusted snack couriers—had dared to bring him a honeycrust tart with the wrong kind of drizzle. Fizzlewick had exploded, not with fire (he was saving that for the pinecone uprising), but with loud, sputtering, bratty declarations of betrayal that had sent poor Mapleberry scrambling back to the bake burrow in tears. “She knows I have standards,” Fizzlewick huffed. “I’m a legend, not a lunchbox.” And so he remained in brooding solitude, radiating autumnal menace and cuteness like some angry seasonal candle. The trees rustled. The squirrels avoided eye contact. Even the wind detoured politely around him. But from the forest floor below, someone was watching—someone who had neither fear of dragons nor respect for his pout. Someone who walked on two paws and wore socks with sandals. Yes, trouble was coming. The kind with snacks, opinions, and absolutely no sense of personal boundaries. Sock-Sandaled Chaos and the Pact of Leaf & Flame The interloper arrived with all the subtlety of a moose in a tambourine shop. She was human—probably—a squat, smirking woman with wild silver hair tied up in what could only be described as a bun held together by twigs, buttons, and vibes. She wore a cardigan that appeared to have been hand-knitted from the tears of disappointed grandmothers, and socks pulled halfway up her shins, tucked neatly into Birkenstocks so offensively functional they could have ended wars. Across her back was slung a lumpy satchel that jingled with an untrustworthy rhythm. She exuded the kind of unbothered energy that made forest gods nervous. Fizzlewick squinted down at her from his branch. “Nope,” he whispered. “No thank you. Not today, forest cryptid.” But the woman waved cheerfully and started climbing the base of Maplebeard like a sentient barnacle. “Helloooooo, little spicy meatball!” she called out, voice sing-song and dangerously whimsical. “Heard there was a temper tantrum brewing in the upper limbs!” “It’s a tactical emotional stance,” Fizzlewick hissed. “Not a tantrum.” “Aww, look at you, puffed up like a hot toddy with feelings.” She grinned, finally reaching the branch just below his. “Name’s Aunt Gloam. I’m what the enchanted folks call an ‘Interventionist Crone.’ Retired. Mostly.” Fizzlewick blinked. “I don’t allow people in my sulking sector. Did you not see the sign?” She gestured vaguely toward a nailed-up twig that read “NO.” in smudged ash. “Oh, I saw it. I assumed it was metaphorical.” “It was CHARCOAL. That makes it *art*.” Unbothered, Aunt Gloam settled on the branch like it was a beanbag chair and began unpacking her satchel. Out came a tin of candied spider legs, a tattered zine titled “So You Think You’re a Familiar?”, a mysterious jawbone, and a tiny, hand-woven hammock. Then finally, a squat jar of what looked like homemade fudge. Fizzlewick’s nostrils flared involuntarily. “Ohhhh no. That’s trap fudge. You can’t bribe me.” “Darlin’, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She unscrewed the lid. The aroma hit him like a poetic slap: cinnamon, nutmeg, brown butter, a hint of mischief. “It’s simply here. Unattended. Vulnerable to dragon decisions.” He inched closer. Then stopped. “...Is it the chewy kind?” “Only a monster makes crumbly fudge.” He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re crafty.” “I’m *crone-aged*. We transcend craft.” They sat in silence for a long moment, only the sound of falling leaves and one distant woodland creature doing karaoke in a fern patch. Fizzlewick unfurled one wing slightly—barely. He reached out a talon and nudged the fudge. It jiggled. He jiggled back. There was a brief, silent duel of wills... and then he took a bite. “...Ugh. It’s stupid how good this is.” “Mmm-hmm.” Aunt Gloam grinned, leaning back like she’d won a card game against fate. Fizzlewick chewed thoughtfully, then wiped a crumb from his chin with great drama. “Fine. You can stay. Temporarily. But I have some conditions.” “Naturally.” She conjured a notepad out of a leaf and what might’ve been pure sarcasm. “List away.” “No talking during my dramatic poses.” “No suggesting herbal remedies for my ‘mood spirals.’” “Absolutely no calling me ‘cutie’ unless you want third-degree singe.” “You will refer to me as either Your Crispness or Sir Emberpants.” “You must honor the sacred Ritual of the Snuggle Nest when I get sleepy.” “Deal,” she said without hesitation. “Wait, really?” “Kid, I’ve dealt with warlocks who burst into tears over improperly steeped tea. You’re adorable with teeth. I’ll manage.” For the first time all day, Fizzlewick’s pout softened. Just a smidge. He kicked one foot idly. “I guess you’re not the worst cryptid I’ve met.” “High praise from a grumble-lizard.” They sat together until the sky turned a dusky violet and the fireflies came out, blinking like gossiping stars. Fizzlewick rested his chin on his claws and let out a soft puff of smoke. “Still mad about the drizzle, though.” “We’ll burn their recipe book together,” Aunt Gloam said, patting his head gently. “After a nap.” “It’s a vengeance nap.” “The best kind.” The leaves above them rustled in approval. Somewhere in the forest, a squirrel dropped its nuts in horror and ran. The brat dragon had made an ally. Which meant, of course, the chaos was just beginning. The Marshmallow Accord & The Rise of Emberpants It began, as many woodland uprisings do, with a pastry scandal. Word had spread—faster than Aunt Gloam could finish weaving her mood-cozy—that Fizzlewick had taken a “mortal ally” into his inner branch. The squirrels were alarmed. The chipmunks were insulted. The badger ambassador, who hadn’t been consulted in over a decade, declared it a “reckless alliance with unpredictable cardigan-based consequences.” The acorn council convened. And in true rodent fashion, their resolution was unanimous: Fizzlewick had become soft. He, of course, did not take this well. “SOFT?!” he bellowed from the treetop, fire curling from his nostrils in dramatic little wisps. “I am fire incarnate! I literally toasted a pinecone into ash this morning because it looked smug!” “It did look smug,” Aunt Gloam confirmed, sipping her blackberry tea from a mug shaped like a cauldron. “But perception is nine-tenths of squirrel law.” “Then it’s time,” he said, flexing his tiny claws with purpose, “for a display of brat force diplomacy.” He flew in a series of tight loops (okay, he wobbled twice, but pulled it off with a spin) and landed in the center of the Hollow’s clearing, arms crossed, tail coiled like a cobra with sass. Surrounding him were dozens of woodland creatures, mostly armed with snacks, pamphlets, or biting side-eye. “You have forgotten,” he began, pacing with high drama, “who rules these crispy-leaved lands.” “No one rules anything,” said a chipmunk. “It’s a forest.” “SILENCE, NUT MINION.” He turned in place, letting the orange light catch his scales just so. “I am Sir Emberpants the Bratflamed, Guardian of the Fifth Limb, Keeper of the Morning Sulk, and Defender of Snack Standards. You dare accuse me of softness?” “You accepted fudge from a biped,” a squirrel jeered. “That’s basically treason.” “It was emotionally complex fudge and I stand by my choices.” “You made her a friendship nest!” someone yelled. “It was a strategic cuddle fort and don’t pretend you wouldn’t nap in it!” The crowd was growing restless. The badger rolled out a scroll titled The Grievance of the Leaves. A group of outraged blue jays began chanting something that sounded suspiciously like “Down with brat-boy.” Tensions rose. Tails twitched. Somewhere in the trees, a war ferret played ominous panpipe music. And then— “ENOUGH!” Aunt Gloam bellowed, tossing a handful of glowing pink orbs into the air. They exploded in slow-motion sparkles that rained down with the smell of toasted sugar. The crowd froze. Literally. Mid-blink, mid-scowl, mid-grumble. Stuck in a glamour field woven from magic and old-lady spite. She walked to Fizzlewick’s side, arms folded in perfect synchronicity with his. “Let’s be clear,” she said, her voice now echoing slightly as if through a very judgmental cave. “This dragon is a menace, a diva, a tactical napper, and occasionally insufferable. But he’s also yours. And he has never let this forest down—except that one time with the hot cider incident, which we do not discuss.” “That cauldron betrayed me,” Fizzlewick muttered. “So you will not cast him out over fudge and companionship. You’ll do what all dramatic enchanted ecosystems do: you’ll throw a festival and pretend none of this ever happened.” “With marshmallows,” Fizzlewick added, perking up. “Roasted on my snout.” “And s’mores.” “And you all have to say sorry with snacks.” “And the chipmunks have to do the apology dance,” he added, eyes gleaming. There was a long silence as the glamour lifted and time resumed. A breeze blew dramatically through the clearing. The squirrels conferred. The badger sighed. The war ferret put his panpipes away. “Fine,” the chipmunk said through gritted teeth. “But we get to bring cider.” “Deal,” Fizzlewick said. “But if it’s the wrong kind of drizzle again, I will incinerate every pie crust within a ten-tree radius.” And so, under the glowing leaves of a forest just ridiculous enough to function, the first ever **Festival of Emberpants** was declared. Creatures danced. Cider flowed. Fizzlewick roasted marshmallows with suspicious delight, occasionally charring one just enough to assert dominance. The chipmunks did their apology dance, and Aunt Gloam taught a class on “Emotional Boundaries and Other Delusions.” Later, curled in his nest beside the crone, Fizzlewick let out a long, satisfied sigh. “You know,” he said, licking a sticky paw, “being emotionally compromised tastes like marshmallows.” “That’s growth, sweetheart,” Gloam said, tucking him in with a wing-sized nap shawl. “It’s still vengeance nap time tomorrow though.” “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” And thus, balance was restored. Snacks were respected. Brats were celebrated. And somewhere far beyond the Hollow, a new tale was already stirring... probably about a baby basilisk with commitment issues. But that’s another story entirely.     Love Fizzlewick as much as he loves properly drizzled snacks? Bring a bit of his fiery charm home with you! Whether you're looking to warm up your space with an enchanted forest tapestry, sip tea beside his smolder on a sleek acrylic print, or strut your brat energy with a tote bag worthy of a dragon tantrum, we’ve got you covered. Take Fizzlewick on the go with a spiral notebook for plotting snack-based vengeance, or decorate your favorite things with a high-quality vinyl sticker featuring everyone’s favorite moody flame nugget. Add a little pout to your life—he insists.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Whiskers at the Witching Window

The Familiar's Complaint “If one more squirrel insults me from the holly bush, I swear to Bast I’ll torch the tree.” The orange tabby was muttering again. His name—though few dared use it aloud—was Bartholomew R.J. Whiskerstein, Esquire. He was the third Familiar to serve at No. 13 Embercurl Lane, a mystical townhouse wedged between dimensions, where the mail arrived only when Mercury was in retrograde and the curtains had a mind of their own. Bartholomew’s ears twitched as he sat perched on the ledge of the violet-paned window. Beneath him bloomed a plush carpet of enchanted lavender that hissed faintly if plucked without permission. Behind him, thick velvet curtains danced without breeze—tracing glowing sigils in the air like lazy lightning bugs scribbling curses in cursive. Inside the townhouse, chaos hummed in that pleasant, distant way only mild sorcery can. There was the sound of a teapot making demands. A stack of grimoire pages trying to unionize. And, somewhere in the study, the soft weeping of a sentient lamp contemplating its existence. Bartholomew ignored all of this. Because Bartholomew had a job. A highly specific job. A job that came with perks (a bottomless dish of roasted chicken hearts) and perils (being regularly used as a scrying lens by a witch who still hadn’t mastered “consent”). He was the Official Perimeter Watcher, Guardian of Thresholds, and—unofficially—the only housemate with the balls to tell Madam Zephira that her black lace corsets were clashing with her aura again. Tonight, however, the swirls in the stucco glowed brighter than usual. Their fractal curls pulsed like molten gold veins across the obsidian walls, marking the hour as not quite midnight and definitely up to something. And Bartholomew, with his one crooked whisker and eyes the color of guilty marmalade, knew the signs. Someone was coming. And not the kind who wore boots or knocked politely or brought salmon. Someone uninvited. With a tail twitch of annoyance and a small sneeze into the lavender blooms (they smelled amazing but were absolute bastards to his sinuses), Bartholomew straightened his spine, narrowed his gaze, and did what any respectable magical creature would do in his position. He farted dramatically, just to establish dominance. The wall beside him hissed in response. “Oh please,” he purred into the growing glow. “If you’re here to devour souls, at least bring a snack.” Zephira, Doomscrolling, and the Visitor from the Slant Madam Zephira Marrowvale was elbow-deep in her spellbook, though not for anything productive. She was doomscrolling. To be fair, the grimoire had recently updated its interface, and now it mimicked the layout of a social media feed—an unfortunate side effect of Zephira’s habit of whispering her thoughts to her mirror while the Wi-Fi was unstable. As such, instead of recipes for lunar elixirs or hexes for passive-aggressive neighbors, the leather-bound tome now served up endless gossip from disembodied witches across the astral plane. “Ugh,” Zephira groaned. “Another thirst trap from Hagatha Moonbroom. That’s the third this week. No one needs to see that much thigh from a lich.” Bartholomew, having returned from his window post only to find his warning hisses entirely ignored, slunk into the main room, tail held at a judgmental tilt. “You do realize,” he said with that slow, deliberate tone cats use when they know you’re not paying attention, “that there’s a potential rift forming in the wall?” Zephira didn’t look up. “Is it the laundry wall or the library wall?” “The front wall.” “Oh.” She blinked. “That’s... more important, isn’t it?” “Only if you enjoy the concept of interior dimensions staying on the inside,” Bartholomew replied, now licking one paw in a manner that suggested this was all terribly beneath him. With a sigh and a dramatic flourish, Zephira stood up, her long coat rustling like parchment paper dipped in attitude. The air around her shimmered with leftover magic: sparkles, ash, and the faint smell of peppermint schnapps. She stomped toward the window where Bartholomew had resumed his watch, this time sitting like a disappointed statue made entirely of orange velvet. Outside, the night was beginning to change. Not just darken—but change. The swirling glow around the window had thickened, threads of molten amber knotting and curving like someone had spilled calligraphy ink into firelight and pressed it to the walls of reality. Then—something knocked. Or maybe it burped. Or maybe the universe coughed up a hairball. Either way, the sound was wrong. “That’s not good,” Zephira whispered, suddenly sober. “That’s... from the Slant.” Bartholomew’s ears flattened. The Slant was a bad neighborhood between planes. It was where lost socks went. Where contracts rewrote themselves. Where things that weren’t supposed to feel shame hung out just to enjoy the sensation. No one invited guests from the Slant. Mostly because if you could invite them, it meant you were already partly one of them. The knock-burp-hiccup came again. “Do you think it’s after you or me?” Zephira asked, half-hoping it would be Bartholomew. He was, after all, technically immortal and less emotionally fragile. “Neither,” he said, fur bristling. “It’s here for the window.” “Why the hell would anyone come for a window?” “Because,” Bartholomew said, leaping down into a stretch that made every vertebrae in his body crackle like a haunted fireplace, “this particular window is a passage. A junction between realms. A former portal to the Celestial DMV. You really should keep better notes.” Zephira’s mouth fell open. “I thought this window had weird feng shui.” Before either of them could speak again, the glass began to bend inward—not break, not shatter—bend, like it was made of smoke or jelly or poorly explained plot devices. The lavender beneath the sill rustled and puffed in protest, releasing sparkles and spores that smelled strongly of sassafras and minor regret. From the swirling gold, a face emerged. Not a full face. Just... parts. An eye here, a suggestion of a grin there. And—strangest of all—a monocle made of static electricity. It was a face both beautiful and terrible, like a Greek god who also did your taxes and wasn’t happy about your deductions. “HOUSE OCCUPANTS,” the entity intoned, its voice vibrating the curtains into curls. Bartholomew leapt back onto the sill and squared his shoulders. “What in the unholy name of wet kibble do you want?” The face pulsed, amused. “I AM THE INSPECTOR OF INTERPLANE THRESHOLDS. THIS UNIT—” “This house, darling,” Zephira corrected, arms crossed. “—THIS UNIT IS IN VIOLATION OF CODE 776-B: UNSANCTIONED ENCHANTMENT OF ARCHITECTURAL OPENINGS.” Zephira raised an eyebrow. “So you’re telling me I have a... magical zoning issue?” Bartholomew hissed. “He’s here to repo the window.” The entity blinked. “YES.” For a moment, no one spoke. Then Zephira reached down, plucked Bartholomew off the sill, and cradled him like a particularly judgmental baguette. “Listen here, Spectral Bureaucrat,” she said, raising her chin, “this window is original to the house. Hand-framed by a sentient carpenter who charged us in riddles. It’s mine. Mine!” The inspector swirled ominously, then paused. “HAVE YOU FILED FORM 13-WHISKER?” Zephira blinked. “...There’s a form?” Bartholomew groaned. “Of course there’s a form.” The face began to phase back into the wall. “I SHALL RETURN AT MOONRISE TO SEIZE THE STRUCTURAL COMPONENT UNLESS PROPER PAPERWORK IS PRODUCED. PREFERABLY WITH A NOTARY’S SIGIL AND A RUNE OF COMPLIANCE.” Then—poof. Gone. Only a light sprinkle of bureaucracy sparkles remained in the air, which smelled like cinnamon and mild passive aggression. Zephira looked down at Bartholomew. “Well... now what?” “Now?” he said, wriggling out of her arms. “Now we commit minor fraud and probably summon your cousin from the Ministry of Misfiled Souls.” “Ugh. Thistle? She still owes me twenty moons and a jar of pickled griffin toes.” “Then I suggest you bring snacks,” Bartholomew said, already walking away. “And don’t wear the lace. It makes your aura look bloated.” Loopholes, Lavender, and Larceny The clock struck something. Probably not midnight, because this particular clock refused to engage with time in a linear fashion. It preferred vibes. Tonight, it struck “tense-but-optimistic,” which was either promising or deeply concerning. Bartholomew was back at the window, tail twitching like a metronome set to sarcasm. The lavender beneath him had sprouted extra blossoms during the argument with the inspector, clearly energized by the conflict. They whispered quietly to themselves about how juicy everything was getting. Inside the house, Zephira was hunched over a cluttered desk, surrounded by scrolls, spell-stamped forms, and at least two empty wine bottles (one real, one conjured). She’d summoned her cousin Thistle for help, which was like hiring a tax attorney who specialized in interpretive dance. “You don’t file the 13-Whisker form,” Thistle was explaining, twirling a quill that occasionally bit her fingers. “You embed it into a sub-layer of your home’s aura, with a notarized dream. Honestly, Zeph, everyone knows that.” “Everyone?” Zephira asked, face planted in a stack of parchment. “You mean everyone who majored in Arcane Bureaucracy and enjoys licking stamps made of beetle shells?” Thistle shrugged, looking very pleased with herself in a cardigan made of disappointment and sequins. “I got mine done during a blackout after a cursed fondue party. You’ve had years.” Bartholomew, overhearing this, let out a sound that was somewhere between a meow and a groan. “You two do realize the Inspector’s coming back tonight, right? I’m not in the mood to explain to the dimensional authorities why a ginger tabby is living inside a legally extradimensional portal with noncompliant trim.” Zephira stood up, eyes glowing faintly with a mix of hope and sleep deprivation. “We have one chance. If we can disguise the window’s threshold signature—just until the next lunar quarter—we can delay the repossession. Thistle, get the dreamcatcher chalk. Bart, start projecting non-threatening thoughtforms. I need plausible deniability on the astral field.” “Excuse you,” Bartholomew sniffed. “I’ve been projecting non-threatening thoughtforms since I was neutered.” The house groaned in agreement, shifting its weight as spells realigned themselves. The curtains flattened. The furniture arranged itself into Feng Shui legal compliance. The dishes washed themselves in a frenzy of sudsy paranoia. Just as the finishing rune was inscribed around the window frame—using chalk blessed by three caffeine-addled dreamwalkers and one heavily sedated owl—the wall glowed again. He was back. The Inspector oozed into existence like molasses with a law degree. “OCCUPANTS,” it bellowed, less intense this time. “I RETURN FOR—” “Hold it,” Zephira interrupted, stepping forward like a woman who had absolutely not just spilled gin on an ancient document of exemption. “Please review Form 13-WHISKER, Subsection D, filed under the Implied Entanglement Clause, certified via mnemonic binding and signed by my Familiar’s third eyelash.” She held up a glittering sigil embossed into a strip of lavender parchment that reeked of legitimacy. Mostly because it was actually a forged wedding license from a dryad and a toaster, re-enchanted by Thistle with mild deception runes and a scent of “forest confidence.” The Inspector pulsed. Blinked. Spun slowly. “THIS... DOES APPEAR TO BE... ACCEPTABLE.” “Then kindly sod off into your dimension’s nearest cubicle farm,” Bartholomew purred, eyes half-lidded. “Before we file a Form 99-B for harassment under Rule of Familiar Dignity.” The Inspector paused. “THOSE STILL EXIST?” “They do if you’ve got a cousin in the Ministry,” Thistle said sweetly, batting her eyes and sipping something from a mug that steamed in Morse code. The glow faded. The swirling tendrils dimmed. The monocle flickered, sighed, and finally vanished like a disappointed dad at a community theatre recital. The Inspector was gone. Zephira slumped against the wall, lavender chalk crumbling in her fist. “We did it.” “We barely did it,” Bartholomew corrected, stretching luxuriously. “You owe me an entire week of scrying-free naps and the good sardines.” “Done,” Zephira said, kissing his furry forehead. “And no corsets for at least a lunar cycle.” “Blessed be,” Thistle whispered, throwing a little confetti made of shredded legal scrolls into the air. Outside, the window returned to its quiet glow. The lavender purred. The swirls of gold settled into elegant curves again—less frantic now, more decorative. Like they were proud of themselves. Like they, too, were in on the joke. Bartholomew returned to his perch, curling up with a satisfied grunt. He blinked once at the stars. “Let ‘em try,” he muttered. “This house is defended by sarcasm and sleep deprivation. We’ll never be conquered.” And as the first rays of false dawn peeked through the enchanted sky, the cat on the sill slept—dreaming, no doubt, of squirrels who finally shut their damn mouths.     Take a Little Magic Home If you felt the curl of mystery or heard the whisper of lavender while reading Whiskers at the Witching Window, you’re not alone. Now you can bring a piece of Bartholomew’s world into your own with a selection of enchanted keepsakes featuring this very scene. Cozy up with the fleece blanket for a nap worthy of a Familiar, or rest your dreams beneath the swirling gold with our duvet cover. Need a bit of sass on the go? The tote bag has your back—whether you're transporting spell ingredients or snacks. And for those seeking a bold statement of aesthetic rebellion, the framed art print is a portal unto itself, ready to hang in any room that dares to flirt with the arcane. Each item is available exclusively at shop.unfocussed.com, where fantasy meets home decor in purring, glowing, ginger-furred defiance.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Stormcaller of the Moonspire

The Roar Before Thunder The villagers of Draumheim had long whispered of the being that lived beyond the reach of men. Above the black pine forests and across the Glacier Pass, beyond the howling winds and shifting skies, there stood a jagged peak crowned in eternal snow. Children called it Moonspire. Hunters dared not name it at all. For they knew — or rather, their bones remembered — the legend of the Stormcaller. It was said to be born of three mothers: one a lioness who roared lightning into being, one a dragoness with wings woven of gold and memory, and one a stag spirit who vanished with the last sunrise of the First Age. From them came the creature now seen only when the sky cracked open — a luminous beast of fur and fang, crowned with antlers that summoned storms, its wings humming with forgotten runes. It was older than the kingdom. Perhaps older than gods. Once every blood moon, the sky turned electric. The high winds curled like serpents around the Moonspire, and on that night, the Stormcaller would rise from the cloudline and sit upon the edge of the world. Watching. Waiting. And when it roared, the mountain cracked below it. But the old magic was breaking. South of the peaks, at the edge of the Ebon Empire, the high king's obsession with conquest had birthed something unnatural. A sorcerer-general known as Ashkhar the Hollow had unearthed an artifact of fire — a crystal that could swallow storms. Bound by ambition, Ashkhar sought to control the sky itself, to enslave lightning, to render the gods obsolete. His warlocks warned him of the Moonspire. Of the creature. Of its oath to protect the balance between man and the storm. Ashkhar listened. And then, in the way of all power-drunk men, he laughed. Now, with the War of Aether near and a crystal engine spinning in the heart of the empire’s dreadnoughts, the veil between worlds began to thin. Lightning no longer danced freely. Storms seemed to cower, stuttering on the horizon like wounded beasts. Crops dried. Forests moaned. Something ancient was being strangled. And far above, at the highest reaches of Moonspire, the Stormcaller stirred for the first time in an age. Its claws raked ice from stone. Electricity hissed along its antlers. Its wings unfurled with the slow, dreadful grace of a forgotten god stretching after a long, cold dream. The runes along its veins shimmered orange, flickering with warning — not to man, but to the sky itself. The Stormcaller had seen empires rise and fall. But this time… they had dared to silence the storm. And for that, there would be reckoning. Skyfire and Bone The Stormcaller did not descend immediately. It crouched at the edge of the Moonspire for three days and three nights, unmoving, staring across a world that had forgotten how to listen to thunder. Its breath fogged the sky. Its claws etched glowing sigils into the ancient ice. Somewhere in the black silence of its chest, the heart of a tempest began to drum — slow, steady, ancient. The gods of the high air trembled, their slumbering domains rustling like leaves in warning. On the fourth morning, the sky split. The dreadnoughts came first — seven black leviathans of steel and spellglass, sailing on sorcery above the Ebon Empire’s northern frontier. Carried beneath them were the Skyspike Engines: weaponized lightning cages fueled by the storm-swallowing crystal Ashkhar had awakened from the Undervault. These machines could rip open a thunderhead and devour it whole. What once danced freely in the clouds now choked inside brass cylinders, bleeding magic into infernal turbines. Ashkhar, armored in obsidian and crowned with fire, stood upon the prow of the lead dreadnought. His voice, amplified by rune-binders, echoed across the peaks. “Show yourself, spirit. Bow, and you may yet serve the empire.” Far above, the Stormcaller blinked — a slow, amber glow behind the frost of its lashes. Bow? It did not know the word. It leapt. The descent was a scream through frozen air. Wings spread wide, the runes across them burning bright blue as the beast tore the wind in half. It didn’t need a battlecry. The very act of its flight was declaration. The mountain howled in its absence. They met above the lowlands. The first dreadnought had barely time to blink its crimson eyes before a bolt of raw, divine lightning struck through its core like a harpoon from the stars. The vessel cracked open mid-air, vomiting flame, metal, and men into the clouds. Ashkhar snarled and raised the crystal, sending out a wave of inverse light — a pressure that peeled magic from the sky like skin from bone. The Stormcaller reeled, its antlers dimming for a heartbeat, the spell-fire chewing at the edges of its wings. The beast crashed into a cloudbank, vanishing for a breath. But the storm is not a single bolt. The storm is fury with memory. It rose again, claws bristling with sparks. It dove straight into the second dreadnought, not with spell or lightning — but with tooth and rage. Its fangs tore through the hull like parchment. The men inside never screamed. They were ash before breath. The ship collapsed inward, folding like a dying star, consumed by the fury of the old world awakened. Yet Ashkhar had prepared for this. He called forth the Hollow Choir — a dozen spectral assassins bound by ritual and silence. Cloaked in the skins of fallen angels, they danced through the air like wraiths. Their blades, carved from sorrow and powered by siphoned divinity, sliced toward the Stormcaller from all sides. The beast roared. Not in pain. In challenge. The sky answered. Clouds above exploded with light. A curtain of silver and blue fire descended from the heavens, obliterating three of the Hollow Choir in an instant. The rest weaved through it, screeching their soulless fury. One reached the Stormcaller’s flank, drove a blade deep into its shoulder — and was incinerated mid-thrust, consumed by a ward etched in solar fire long before the Empire had a name. Still, the blade stuck. Blood, like molten starlight, spilled across the clouds. The Stormcaller faltered mid-flight. The dreadnoughts circled like vultures. From within the lead vessel, Ashkhar screamed words not meant for mortal mouths. The crystal blazed red, and the sky inverted — color drained, sound warped, and the very gravity of the world bent inward. “Now,” he growled, “you will fall.” The Stormcaller’s body convulsed in mid-air. Its wings folded inward as if crushed by the weight of the command. The runes flickered. Lightning halted in its veins. And then — A sound. Not a roar. Not a thunderclap. Something deeper. A drumbeat. From deep within the belly of the world, a pulse of rhythm older than language surged up through the mountains and into the beast. A low, ancient beat — the drum of the First Storm. It called not just to the Stormcaller, but to the very fabric of the sky. Storms that had hidden in shame surged from the far corners of the world. Winds screamed. Oceans twisted. Fire fell sideways. The balance had been betrayed. Now it would be avenged. The Stormcaller opened its eyes. They glowed not amber — but white. Endless. Starfire wrapped around its horns. The rune-wings expanded. And then it spoke, not in words but in weather. In will. In fury. The sky broke open. One dreadnought shattered like glass, ejected into another, both swallowed by a vortex of violet flame. The remaining Hollow Choir evaporated, the god-blood that sustained them boiling in a single heartbeat. Ashkhar screamed and turned the crystal’s core inward, desperate to contain the surging power — but it was too late. The artifact could not devour what the sky had reclaimed. It shattered. So did he. The explosion lit the night like a false sun. When it cleared, there was no empire left in the sky — only falling sparks, and the Stormcaller, silhouetted against a world put right. Blood still fell from its shoulder, staining the snow clouds beneath. It did not land. It did not rest. It simply turned — and flew back toward the Moonspire, the runes along its wings pulsing in slow, silent fury. The balance had not been restored. But it had been defended. The Sky Remembers For seven nights after the fall of the Empire’s skyfleet, the world held its breath. The moons spun uneasily. Forests fell silent. The rivers reversed their flow for a day and a half, as if the world’s blood was unsure which way to pump. Even the deepfolk — those blind creatures that whispered through stone and lived where magma dreamed — closed their ancient eyes and waited. For none could say what would happen when a creature like the Stormcaller roared not in threat... but in judgment. Yet there was no second strike. The Stormcaller did not return to finish the world. It did not descend into kingdoms or strike down rulers or write its law in lightning across the sky. Instead, it returned to Moonspire and vanished into a cloudbank. There were no footprints. No den. Only silence. And a faint scent of ozone on the winds that spiraled endlessly around the peak. But the changes had already taken root. Without Ashkhar’s crystal matrix, the Storm Engines sputtered and died. Across the continents, empires that had grown drunk on skyfire technology found themselves crippled. Airships plummeted. Warfronts dissolved. Borders unraveled like tired seams. The tide of conquest receded, not in flames, but in confusion — as if the earth had nudged mankind back into the mud from which it had risen. In Draumheim, the villagers awoke to skies that breathed again. Thunder rolled softly over the hills, no longer weaponized, no longer caged. Rain returned — real rain, not the manufactured drizzle of cloudcutters. Fields bloomed with a ferocity unseen in generations. Wolves returned to the high forest. Bears sang strange songs in their sleep. And then came the stories. At first, they trickled in like rumors. A shepherd near the foothills who claimed the lightning had spoken to her in dreams. A child who drew the creature with perfect accuracy, despite having never left his village. A blind widow who stood for three days under the open sky and whispered, “He’s watching still.” The monks of the Windway Abbey, once scholars of astral mapping and weather prophecy, claimed the constellations had shifted. That a new star now blinked above Moonspire — faint, blue, and rhythmic, like a heartbeat. The Order of the Chain — what remained of Ashkhar’s loyalists — attempted a final, desperate ritual to bind what they called “The Skygod.” They brought twelve crystal blades, nine bound scribes, and a library’s worth of forgotten names. They reached the summit on the winter solstice. None returned. Only a single rune remained, scorched into the peak beside the last campfire. It read: "You may climb the mountain. But the sky does not kneel." And so the Stormcaller became myth again. Bards told a thousand versions — some called it vengeance, others mercy. Some claimed the beast was dead, that the blood it lost in the battle was its last. Others said it had merely gone to sleep again, dreaming of the world that once danced with storms rather than enslaving them. A few — madmen and poets — whispered it was never a creature at all, but the will of the sky given flesh only when needed. Years passed. Then decades. The world changed, subtly. Architects stopped building towers that scraped the clouds. Kings stopped calling themselves gods. Sailors left offerings on their masts for fair winds, and children learned to mimic thunder when scared — not to frighten monsters away, but to ask for protection. And every now and then — when the moon hung low and stormclouds gathered over the mountains — someone would claim to see a silhouette perched on the edge of the world. Wings etched in rune-light. Antlers humming with power. Eyes like molten dusk. Just watching. For the Stormcaller did not destroy the world of men. It reminded them. That the sky is not a resource. It is not a frontier. It is not a thing to be broken and bottled and bought. It is alive. And it remembers.     Bring the Stormcaller Home If the legend of the Stormcaller stirred something in your bones — that quiet thrill of awe, power, and wonder — you can now bring its presence into your space. This epic image is available as a museum-quality canvas print, an enchanting tapestry for your sacred wall, a cozy fleece blanket to weather your own winter nights, or a bold throw pillow for your throne. Each item features the electrifying detail and mythical majesty of “Stormcaller of the Moonspire,” making it more than art — it’s a reminder that some storms should never be silenced.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Laughing Muse

The Scandalous Rebirth of Seraphina Muse Long before she became a muse, Seraphina was a minor chaos deity assigned to the Bureau of Spontaneous Laughter. Her job involved distributing ill-timed giggles during funeral services, awkward wedding toasts, and tense elevator rides. She did her best, really — but she had a knack for going just a smidge overboard. One time, she made a monk snort so hard during a vow of silence that he ruptured a sacred scroll. That earned her a demotion... and, to be fair, a cult following in the underworld’s meme forums. Eventually, the Department of Divine Vibes had no choice but to put her on “Creative Probation.” She had one last shot at redemption: to live a mortal life as an artist’s muse and inspire something truly beautiful—without triggering any mass nudity incidents or disco plague outbreaks. No pressure. Seraphina was flung into the mortal plane with nothing but her laugh (which sparkled like champagne and slightly echoed with goat noises) and a kaleidoscopic wrap dress made of cosmic threads. She arrived mid-spin in a sunflower field during golden hour, startling a painter named Emil who was trying to sketch a very serious still life of a dead pineapple. “Oh sweet cosmos,” Emil gasped, dropping his sketchbook and sanity simultaneously. “Are you... real?” Seraphina winked. “Define ‘real,’ darling.” And thus began the Great Artistic Reawakening of Emil Brandt, formerly known as the most tragically constipated artist in his district. His oils had dried, his palette knives had dulled, and his soul had the texture of plain toast. But with Seraphina’s arrival? Suddenly he was painting like a caffeinated octopus on a sugar high. Portraits, abstracts, living walls of swirling emotion—and one entire mural of her left eyebrow, because, as he put it, “the arch contains multitudes.” But while Emil painted, Seraphina... watched. Observed. Laughed. Flirted with moonbeams. Made his cat speak French. And deep within, something strange began to blossom. For the first time in her chaotic existence, Seraphina felt something that wasn’t just amusement or the mischievous urge to switch everyone’s underpants inside out telepathically. She felt... invested. Because as it turned out, being a muse wasn’t about being admired—it was about awakening. Stirring something bold and brave and impossibly beautiful in someone else. And maybe—just maybe—that was the kind of magic worth sticking around for. ...Or maybe it was just the coffee. Mortals had truly perfected that drug. The Gallery of Mostly Accidental Genius The next few months were a kaleidoscopic montage of late-night paint flinging, whispered provocations, and ill-advised energy drinks brewed with starlight and a hint of peppermint chaos. Emil’s flat—once the epitome of existential beige—was now a jungle of canvases, spilled pigment, laughing plants, and at least two sentient paintbrushes who insisted on unionizing. And Seraphina? She was thriving. More mortal by the day, in the best of ways—she had learned how to make pancakes (badly), flirt with delivery drones (successfully), and binge-watch supernatural soap operas (obsessively). But most importantly, she'd learned how to fall in love—not just with Emil, though that was happening at a pace that would make even Aphrodite raise a perfectly plucked brow—but with inspiration itself. Not the grand, thundering muse-y kind either, but the gentle, awkward, totally unphotogenic moments like watching Emil try to paint while sneezing, or the way he swore at his canvas like it owed him money. It all crescendoed into the event neither of them saw coming: The Annual Neo-Romantic Art Gala. The invitation came in an envelope made of recycled rumors and sealed with glitter-glue vengeance. Emil was to be the featured artist—an anonymous patron had submitted his work and paid the entrance fee in gold teeth and espresso loyalty cards. At first, Emil protested, because he was Emil and full of artistic angst and unresolved drama with a loaf of sourdough in his fridge. But Seraphina put her cosmic foot down. “You're going. I'm going. And you're going to wear the good boots. No, not those. The ones that say ‘I paint heartbreak and can salsa.’” When they arrived at the gala, the room went still. Or rather, it tried to. One woman fainted into a vat of guava wine. Someone dropped their monocle into a shrimp cocktail. The staff dog, Gregory, sat up straighter and gave Seraphina a gentlemanly nod. Because Seraphina, in her element, wearing a gown made entirely of stitched moonlight and dangerously high expectations, was not simply a muse—she was a movement. Her dress shimmered with her every mood—flaring rose-gold with flirtation, stormy violet when bored, and once, dramatically, deep chartreuse when she spotted her ex-colleague and long-time nemesis: Thalia of the Whispering Moods. Thalia. Oh, Thalia. Muse of Serious Poetry, Dramatic Sighs, and the occasional overpriced candle line. She swept through the crowd in a gown made of broken promises and seasonal depression, clutching a wine glass that somehow always stayed full and only drank tears of misunderstood poets. “Seraphina,” Thalia purred. “How... quaint. You’ve chosen to dabble in human creativity. Again.” “Thalia,” Seraphina replied with the poise of someone who once seduced a time vortex into running late. “Still collecting sad boys like Pokémon cards, I see.” The tension could have sliced a croissant. But there was no time for muse-on-muse drama, because Emil’s collection had just been unveiled—and it was spectacular. Giant canvases pulsed with color and motion. Portraits that breathed, abstracts that whispered, and one disturbingly seductive painting of a croissant mid-fall that earned three offers and a marriage proposal. The centerpiece? A breathtaking portrait of Seraphina, caught mid-laughter, wrapped in swirls of color and light like she’d been caught dancing with the northern lights. The room fell to hush. Thalia, looking suddenly less smug, narrowed her eyes. “That’s not mortal talent,” she hissed. “You’ve cheated.” “He found his own inspiration,” Seraphina replied, letting her dress shift into a blaze of sunbeam yellow and pride. “All I did was stop laughing long enough to watch him find it.” Thalia tried to protest, but at that moment, the painting of Seraphina laughed. Not metaphorically. Literally. It laughed—out loud. A rich, rolling laugh that echoed through the gallery and triggered spontaneous interpretive dance in at least seven attendees. The spell was broken. Or made. It didn’t matter. The magic had worked. Emil was swarmed with press, collectors, and at least one cult recruiter. But he only had eyes for her. Later, under a quiet archway far from the clamor and champagne-fueled art critics, he asked her the question that had been quietly blooming between brushstrokes and shared pancakes for weeks. “What happens now, Seraphina?” She smiled, and her dress turned the soft pink of post-laughter intimacy. “Now?” she said, her voice a curl of perfume and mischief. “Now we make something even more dangerous than art...” “What’s that?” he whispered, a little dazed. “A life.” And for the first time in her long, bizarre, glitterbomb existence, Seraphina Muse didn’t just feel inspired. She felt home. The Echoes That Linger After the Laugh It should’ve ended in bliss. In brunches and paint-streaked kisses. In happily ever afters and montages scored with whimsical cello. But this is a story about a Muse—and muses don’t retire to suburbia with a Pinterest board and a joint savings account. One morning, while Emil slept tangled in a blanket that Seraphina swore had developed a mild crush on him, the sky above their little art-filled flat cracked like a dropped wine glass. A rift opened in the clouds, raining shimmering letters onto the rooftop garden. Each letter landed with a dramatic flair that screamed “divine bureaucracy”. It was a summons. Seraphina Muse. Return Immediately. Probation Ended. Evaluation Pending. Dress Code: Formal. No Glitter. “No glitter?!” she cried, clutching the paper like it had personally insulted her aura. She tried to ignore it. Pretended it was junk mail. Threw it into a planter. But the letter kept reappearing—on mirrors, inside fruit, once inside Emil’s left boot. Eventually, the celestial HR department sent a messenger: a flaming pigeon named Brian who only spoke in passive-aggressive haikus. Seraphina had a choice. Return, and be judged. Stay, and... fade. Slowly. Beautifully. Tragically. Like a soap bubble in a cathedral. Muses could live among mortals, yes—but not indefinitely. They were creatures of divine purpose, and their magic, left untended, would eventually burn itself out, like a candle trying to light its own wax. So she did what any chaotic cosmic being would do. She made a spreadsheet of pros and cons. Then burned it. Then cried in the bathtub with her dress wrapped around her like a security blanket that occasionally hummed old show tunes. She didn’t tell Emil. She couldn’t. What would she say? “Hey, babe, this has been great, but I might get audited by Olympus and vanish into metaphysical paperwork”? No. Instead, she painted with him. Danced with him. Loved him like she was trying to tattoo her laughter into his memory. And then, on a Tuesday that smelled like citrus and unfinished conversations, she left. No note. Just a single, strange gift left on the easel: a loaf of sourdough, perfectly toasted, with a swirl of paint across its crust that shimmered like a galaxy. Inside, carved in burnt crumbs, was a single message: “Paint me free.”     What followed was Emil’s “Mystery Phase.” His art exploded into surreal masterpieces—suns made of sighs, women laughing out of waterfalls, dreamscapes where cosmic dresses unraveled into stars. He never spoke publicly of Seraphina, though collectors begged. He simply painted. And in every gallery, every café, every street corner where his work appeared, someone would inevitably start to laugh. Quietly at first, then uncontrollably. And always—always—with joy. Back in the celestial realm, Seraphina faced her trial. It was held in a court made entirely of forgotten poetry and awkward hugs. The Council of Muses peered down at her with faces like thunderstorms wearing too much perfume. “You disobeyed,” Thalia snapped. “You interfered. You formed... attachments.” “Damn right I did,” Seraphina said, standing in a blazer made of midnight and confidence. “And I inspired more in one mortal’s mess of a heart than your entire department did last century.” The courtroom gasped. Somewhere, a metaphor fainted. “Then prove your worth,” the council boomed. “One final act. Inspire something eternal.” She smiled. She laughed. And she reached into her pocket, pulled out a tiny vial of swirling color—paint Emil had once spilled in a moment of distracted love—and flung it across the sky. The stars shifted. A new constellation bloomed—chaotic, lovely, slightly unbalanced. It formed the shape of a laughing woman, hair swirling, eyes ablaze. A muse, eternal not because she was divine, but because someone down below had refused to forget her.     Years later, Emil—old now, glorious in silver and age spots—taught art in a sunlit studio above a bakery. His students knew little about his past, save for the giggling portraits and one rule he insisted upon: “Paint what makes your soul laugh,” he’d say. “And if something magical ever kisses your life... don’t try to keep it. Just honor it.” One night, he looked up at the stars. Saw her shape there. Smiled through tears. And swore, for the briefest moment, he heard her whisper, “Nice boots.” She had always loved those damn boots.     Bring “The Laughing Muse” into your world... If this tale stirred your soul or sparked a mischievous smile, let the magic live on. Our gallery-quality canvas print turns any room into a sanctuary of creativity. Carry a little enchantment wherever you go with the vibrant tote bag, perfect for books, brushes, or secrets. Wrap yourself in inspiration with our luxurious wall tapestry, a statement piece that brings life to any space. And for moments when laughter needs to travel, the greeting card is your muse-in-a-envelope—perfect for sharing magic with others. Each piece is printed with care, bursting with color, story, and joy—just like Seraphina herself. Explore the full collection and let your walls whisper a little muse-worthy mischief.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Don't Make Me Puff

In the deepest corner of the Mistwillow Woods — somewhere between the Glade of Passive-Aggressive Mushrooms and the Barking Fern Grove — sat a dragon. Not just any dragon. He was small, like... "fits-in-your-knapsack-but-will-burn-your-hair-off-if-you-zip-it" small. His name? Snortles the Indignant. Perched with great ceremony on a tree branch that had survived five tantrums and at least one accidental flamethrower moment, Snortles squinted at the forest floor below. His wings, no bigger than a pair of angry toast slices, twitched in irritation. A dandelion seed had floated into his line of sight — and worse — into his personal airspace. "Rude," he grumbled, swiping at it with one stubby claw like a diva brushing off a paparazzi fly. "I did not approve your flight path." The dandelion puff bobbed innocently, completely unaware of the fiery fury it had just flirted with. Snortles glared harder, puffing out his cheeks like a kettle about to go full Wagner. But instead of smoke or flame, he let out an itty-bitty sneeze that sent the puff sailing away in dramatic, slow-motion style. His tail thudded against the branch. "Ugh. Weak sneeze. That was supposed to be my villain origin story." From below, a squirrel cackled. “Nice puff, scale-butt.” Snortles froze. Slowly, dangerously, his snout turned to the offending rodent, eyes narrowed like a toddler denied a snack. “Say that again, nut hoarder. I dare you.” But the squirrel was already gone, leaving only the sound of bouncing acorns and smugness in its wake. “You mock me now,” Snortles muttered, hopping down from the branch with all the grace of a disgruntled potato, “but soon, the skies shall tremble beneath my wings! The forest shall whisper my name in reverent fear! The chipmunks will write ballads about my rage!” He tripped over a moss tuft mid-monologue. “Ow.” He glared at the ground like it owed him money. “I’m fine. I meant to do that. It was a dominance roll.” And thus began the terribly important, poorly planned rise of Snortles the Indignant, Bringer of Mild Inconvenience and Unapologetic Pouting. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the moss-laden underbrush with the tenacity of a toddler who had just been told “no” for the first time. He kicked a pinecone. It didn’t go far. The pinecone bounced once, rolled into a spiderweb, and was instantly wrapped in silken judgment. Even the arachnids had more presence than him today. “This forest,” he declared to no one in particular, “is a conspiracy of allergens and underestimation.” Somewhere in the canopy above, a blue jay chuckled — a throaty, smug little cackle. Snortles glanced upward and hissed. The bird immediately dropped a poop on a toadstool nearby, purely out of spiteful amusement. “I see,” Snortles muttered. “A hostile ecosystem. You’ll all regret this when I’m Supreme Wing Commander of Charred Woodland Affairs.” He marched on. That is, until he accidentally walked head-first into the backside of a badger named Truffle. Truffle was not just any badger — he was the unofficial therapist of the forest, self-appointed and almost entirely unqualified. “Snortles!” Truffle exclaimed, turning with a gentle smile and a slightly burnt nose. “Still trying to declare war on nature?” “I’m not declaring war,” Snortles said dramatically. “I’m issuing a series of unreciprocated ultimatums.” Truffle patted the small dragon’s head. “That’s adorable, dear. Want a hug?” Snortles recoiled as if he’d been offered a bath. “Absolutely not. My fury does not accept cuddles.” “Oh no,” Truffle sighed. “You’re at Stage Three.” “Stage Three of what?” Snortles asked suspiciously. “The Five Stages of Miniature Dragon Angst,” Truffle explained. “Stage One is huffing. Stage Two is pouting. Stage Three is wandering the forest making monologues to small animals who honestly just want to poop in peace.” “I am NOT angsting,” Snortles snapped, though his tail was curled in the universal symbol of Petulant Rebellion. “I am building a legacy.” Just then, a very old toad wearing spectacles and a monocle (yes, both) slurped out from under a fern. He gazed at Snortles with all the benevolent patience of a wizard who has seen too many prophecies ruined by tiny protagonists. “Young Snortles,” the toad croaked, “the Council of the Slightly Magical Beasts has convened and decided to offer you guidance.” Snortles brightened instantly. “Finally! A council! Excellent. How many legions do I get?” “None,” said the toad. “We’re giving you an internship.” Snortles blinked. “An... intern-ship?” “Yes. You’ll assist Madame Thistle in the Dandelion Archives. She’s looking for a seasonal flame source to warm her tea kettle. You’ll also be sweeping spores off scrolls and gently threatening beetles that chew on ancient paper.” “That is NOT conquest!” Snortles shouted, wings flapping wildly in betrayal. “No,” the toad said serenely. “It’s character development.” Truffle handed Snortles a tiny broom. “It’s a magical learning opportunity!” Snortles glared. He turned to the toad. “Fine. But I’m only doing this to infiltrate the system and incite revolution from within.” The toad nodded. “Very good, young incendiary. Be sure to file your timesheet weekly.” And that’s how Snortles, Devourer of Dreams (self-titled), became the part-time intern of an elderly dryad who alphabetized wind-sent whispers and drank a suspicious amount of chamomile tea. The job was boring. The kettle only needed a puff or two of flame a day. The scrolls, while ancient, were mostly filled with passive-aggressive notes about gnome drama and one rather explicit ballad about mushroom courtship. Snortles read all of it. He also practiced glaring at teacups and lighting only the correct corners of letters on fire. It wasn’t war. It wasn’t glory. It was... tolerable. Kind of. In a “this is beneath me and yet I’m very good at it” sort of way. And while no one admitted it aloud, Snortles was... dare we say... thriving. One afternoon, Madame Thistle looked over her glasses at him and said, “You’ve improved. You almost look responsible.” Snortles looked horrified. “Take it back.” “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. “You’re a brat, but you’re a useful one. I might even recommend you to the Council for field work.” “Field work?” he echoed, suspicious. “Yes,” she said. “We’ve had reports of... disturbances. Something’s moving in the northern grove. Something bigger. Perhaps you’re ready.” Snortles’s wings twitched. His nostrils flared. His spines bristled like a porcupine with ambition. “Finally,” he whispered. “An actual chance to be important.” He left that night, tail high, confidence higher. The dandelion puffs bobbed along in the moonlight as he passed through the forest once more. This time, they did not mock. This time, they looked... worried. Something was coming. And it might actually be worse than Snortles. Snortles the Indignant stomped through the dew-drenched northern grove, heart ablaze with purpose, claws flexing like he’d rehearsed this moment for months — which, in fairness, he had. Mostly in front of a puddle he insisted was a scrying pool. He imagined the forest would dim around him. He expected ominous rustling. He was ready for a showdown. Instead, he tripped on a toad. “Excuse me,” the toad croaked, completely unfazed. “You stepped on my existential crisis.” Snortles gave him a withering glance. “I’m here to investigate a terrible threat to the forest. I do not have time for philosophical amphibians.” “Suit yourself,” the toad muttered, sliding back into the moss. “But you’re headed right into it.” “Good,” Snortles growled. “It’s time someone witnessed my glory.” And then... he saw it. Rising between the trees was a shape — bulbous, furry, and massive. It pulsed with some kind of unnatural static, like a thousand socks rubbed on a thousand carpets. Snortles narrowed his eyes, brain desperately flipping through his mental field guide. It was... a rabbit. No, not just a rabbit. This was Brog the Boundless, a magical hare of enormous size and questionable hygiene, cursed decades ago by a bored wizard with a thing for overcompensating familiars. Brog’s long ears twitched like antennae scanning for sass, and his eyes sparkled with a kind of feral boredom that spelled danger. Snortles stepped forward. “I am Snortles the Indignant, Forest Intern of the Archives and Unofficial Bringer of Minor Chaos. I’ve come to—” “BROG HUNGRY,” bellowed the hare, lurching forward and devouring an entire tree stump like a carrot stick. Snortles took an involuntary step back. “Oh,” he said. “You’re... that kind of threat.” Brog bounded forward, slobber trailing, eyes locked on Snortles with unhinged snack-seeking focus. Somewhere in the distance, a group of dryads screamed and fled into the underbrush. The ferns curled in terror. A mushroom spontaneously combusted. It was go time. Snortles flared his wings, lifted his chin, and bellowed, “I HAVE ONE VERY SPECIFIC SKILL!” He puffed. A burst of flame roared from his nostrils — well, a polite gout really, more flambé than inferno — but it was enough. Brog reared back, stunned, his whiskers singed just so. The big rabbit blinked. Then hiccuped. Then sat down, very abruptly, like someone had unplugged him. “Was it... the spice?” Brog mumbled. Snortles stood in silence, chest heaving, wings twitching. He’d done it. He’d brattled the beast. He hadn’t burned down the forest (only two shrubs). He hadn’t fainted. He had... puffed. The next morning, the Council of Slightly Magical Beasts convened on a mossy log, grumpy and half-caffeinated. The toad in spectacles nodded solemnly. “Snortles,” he said, “you have successfully completed your probationary field assignment. You are hereby promoted to... Assistant Junior Forest Custodian Third Class.” Snortles frowned. “That sounds made up.” “Oh, it is,” said the toad. “But it comes with a badge.” Snortles looked at the tiny golden acorn pin and grinned. “Do I get to assign tasks to others?” “No.” “Can I file a complaint about that?” “Also no.” “Can I puff at anyone who disagrees with me?” The toad paused. “We... strongly discourage that.” “So that’s a ‘maybe,’” Snortles said smugly, pinning the badge to his chest scale. And so the legend of Snortles grew — slowly, unevenly, full of accidental victories and overly dramatic tantrums. But the forest changed that day. Because somewhere out there was a dragon so small he could fit in your hat, but so full of fire, sass, and wildly mismanaged ambition... that even Brog the Boundless had learned to walk the long way around his mossy log. The dandelions still danced in the breeze. But none of them dared puff in Snortles’s direction anymore. He had puffed once — and that was enough.     Love this bratty little firecracker? You can bring Snortles the Indignant home (with minimal singeing) as a framed art print for your lair, a bold wood print that screams “tiny dragon, big attitude,” or a gloriously sassy tapestry perfect for walls in need of whimsical menace. Want to warn your friends you’re one puff away from chaos? Send them a greeting card that says it all — with wings, scales, and a side-eye that won’t quit. Each piece captures the hyper-realistic textures, rich fantasy tones, and cheeky charm of our favorite pocket-sized pyro. Perfect for lovers of bratty dragons, whimsical fantasy creatures, and magical mischief-makers.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Flame-Bird and Fang-Face

The Fire-Bird and the Fang-Fool Deep in the Whisperwood, where trees mutter rumors about squirrels and moss throws shade like a drag queen at brunch, lived a dragon named Fang-Face — though that wasn't his real name. His birth name was Terrexalonious the Third, but it didn’t exactly roll off the tongue mid-scream, so “Fang-Face” stuck. He was enormous, scaly, and charming in a "forgot-to-brush-his-fangs-for-five-centuries" kind of way. His eyes bulged with the constant manic energy of someone who’d consumed way too many enchanted espresso beans — which he absolutely had. Fang-Face had one obsession: jokes. Practical, mystical, elemental, existential — the type that’d make a philosopher cry into their goblet of fermented thought. The problem? The forest folk didn’t get him. His punchlines landed like soggy mushrooms on a wedding cake. No one laughed, not even the trees — and those things loved low-hanging fruit. Then came the phoenix. She burst into Fang-Face’s glade in a fiery swoop of sass and song, burning a rude shape into the moss as she landed. Her name was Blazette. Full name? Blazette Featherflame the Incorrigible. And incorrigible she was. She had talons sharp enough to slice through passive aggression and a beak that never shut up. Her feathers shimmered like molten sarcasm, and her laugh could peel bark off a pine at twenty paces. She was, as she put it, “too hot for these basic birch bitches.” Their first meeting went exactly as you'd expect two egos with no brakes to go. “Nice teeth,” Blazette smirked, hopping up onto a log. “Did your orthodontist have a vendetta against symmetry?” “Nice wings,” Fang-Face grinned. “You always this flammable, or is it just when you're talking?” They stared at each other. Tension crackled in the air like overcooked bacon. And then — chaos. Matching cackles erupted across the glade, echoing through the trees and terrifying a nearby deer into spontaneous leg yoga. It was love at first insult. From that day forward, the dragon and the phoenix became inseparable — mostly because nobody else could stand them. They filled the forest with mischief, misquotes, and midair roasting sessions (both literal and figurative). But something was coming. Something even more chaotic. Something with feathers, scales… and a grudge. And it all started with a stolen acorn. Or was it an enchanted egg? Honestly, both were shaped suspiciously alike, and Fang-Face had stopped labeling his snack stash centuries ago. Talons, Teeth, and a Terrible Idea Let’s rewind to the incident that flapped this whole mess into motion. It was a Tuesday. Not that weekdays mattered in Whisperwood — time was more of a loose suggestion there — but Tuesday had a vibe. A “let’s do something stupid and blame it on the cosmic alignment” kind of vibe. Fang-Face had just finished etching a caricature of a squirrel into a boulder using nothing but heat vision and mild resentment, when Blazette crash-landed through a vine-draped canopy carrying what appeared to be a large, glowing nut. “I stole an acorn,” she declared triumphantly, wings slightly smoking. “That’s... a Fabergé egg,” Fang-Face said, peering at it through the smoke. “I’m 90% sure it’s humming in Morse code.” “It was guarded by three talking mushrooms, a raccoon in a kimono, and something that kept chanting ‘do not disturb the egg of Moltkar.’ What do you think that means?” Fang-Face shrugged. “Probably nothing important. Forest’s always having an identity crisis.” He poked it with a claw. The egg hiccuped and glowed brighter. A faint whisper curled into the air: “Return me or perish.” “Ooooh,” Blazette grinned, “it talks! I call dibs!” They tucked the egg behind a boulder next to Fang-Face’s lava lamp collection and immediately forgot about it. That is, until night fell. That’s when the sky turned pink. Not a gentle cotton-candy pink. We’re talking retina-singeing, gum-chewed-by-a-unicorn pink. Trees began to sway rhythmically, like they were at a rave no one had been invited to. Somewhere in the distance, a kazoo played a single ominous note. “Did you hear that?” Blazette whispered, feathers twitching. “Yup,” Fang-Face nodded. “Either the egg’s waking up, or the forest’s been possessed by sentient interpretive dance.” They returned to the egg. Except it wasn’t an egg anymore. It had hatched. Kind of. Because what now sat in its place wasn’t a chick or a dragonling or even a mildly cursed puffball. It was… a goose. An extremely angry, six-foot-tall, glowing, telepathic goose wearing a tiara made of stars. “I AM MOLTINA, QUEEN OF THE REALM-BRINGER, DESTROYER OF PEACE, MOTHER OF MIGRATION!” the goose thundered, telepathically of course, because her beak never moved — it was too regal for articulation. Fang-Face blinked. “You’re adorable.” Blazette whispered, “I think we made a celestial oopsie.” “You dare call me adorable?!” Moltina flared, and the ground under them cracked like a cookie in a tantrum. “Ma’am,” Blazette said, stepping forward with her most diplomatic head tilt, “I’d like to formally apologize for stealing your… cosmic nesting space. I assumed it was a snack. You know. Because acorn-sized. And glowing. And snarky.” Moltina narrowed her eyes. “Your apology has been logged. For future mockery.” Now, Fang-Face was many things: dangerous, flamboyant, emotionally unavailable — but he was also clever in the way only someone with access to ancient scrolls and an unnecessary amount of free time could be. He started plotting. “Okay, Blazey,” he whispered later that night, as Moltina constructed a throne of enchanted pinecones, “what if we… adopted her?” “What?” “Hear me out. We raise her. Mold her. Channel that cosmic rage into interpretive dance or amateur pottery. She’ll never destroy the world if she’s emotionally codependent on us!” Blazette rubbed her temple. “That is the single most irresponsible idea I’ve ever heard, and I once tried to light a marshmallow with a spell from the Forbidden Tome of Flammable Regret.” “So that’s a yes?” She paused. “I mean... she is kind of fluffy.” And so it began. The rearing of Moltina. Queen of Cosmic Judgment. Now self-appointed “baby goose of mild chaos.” They taught her everything a young omnipotent avian needed to know: how to toast mushrooms without igniting their social anxiety, how to sass a unicorn into therapy, how to sing folk ballads about moss in three languages (one of them being interpretive sneezing). At first, things were actually... kind of adorable. Whisperwood warmed up to the trio. Mice threw them festivals. Badgers knit them passive-aggressive scarves. A dryad opened a juice bar in their honor. But of course, it didn’t last. Because you can't raise a storm without getting a little wet. And Moltina? She was a monsoon with opinions. And when a celestial goose decides it's time for a coronation... well, darling, you'd better have confetti. Or at least body armor. Coronation, Catastrophe, and Cosmic Clarity The forest had seen many strange things. A weeping willow that gossiped about everyone’s love life. A hedgehog cult that worshipped a vending machine. Even that one time a thundercloud got drunk on fermented pollen and ranted for three days about its divorce. But nothing — nothing — had prepared it for Moltina’s coronation. It began at dawn, as most dramatic events do, because golden lighting flatters everyone. The invitation had gone out in dreams, sung directly into the subconscious minds of all sentient life within a five-mile radius. The message? Simple: “Attend, or regret your vibe for eternity.” Fang-Face and Blazette had tried — tried — to keep it low-key. Some bunting, a reasonable amount of glitter explosions, just a few enchanted butterflies with tiaras. But Moltina had “a vision,” and unfortunately, that vision involved seven hundred floating crystal orbs, a choir of operatic possums, and a light show so intense it gave a willow tree anxiety-induced vertigo. “Why are the badgers spinning in synchronized circles?” Blazette whispered from her perch on the ceremonial perch-perch (don’t ask). “Did they rehearse this?” “I think they’re possessed,” Fang-Face muttered. “But politely.” Then the drums began. No one had brought drums. No one owned drums. And yet, somewhere in the heavens, rhythm had taken root. A path of glowing mushrooms unfurled across the clearing, forming a runway. And strutting down that runway, wings flared and tiara ablaze, came Moltina — her feathered form radiant, her eyes filled with unknowable power and the smugness of a goose that knew she was a main character. “Citizens of the Rooted Realms,” she projected directly into their minds, “today we gather to honor me. For I have grown beyond chickhood. I have eaten enlightenment and pooped stardust. I am ready to rule.” There was a beat of stunned silence. Then, someone sneezed confetti. Fang-Face, who had prepared a speech (against everyone’s better judgment), stepped forward. “We are honored, Your Quackiness,” he began. “Your radiant fluff has brought joy, confusion, and occasional structural damage to us all. May your reign be long, chaotic, and mildly threatening.” “Amen,” said Blazette, already sipping from a mug labeled “This is Fire Whiskey, Fight Me.” But, just as Moltina was about to ascend her throne — which was a floating platform made entirely out of recycled soap operas and gold leaf — something crackled in the distance. A ripple tore across the sky. The pink turned to violet. Time stuttered, like a hiccup in reality’s matrix. And into the glade stepped... another goose. This one was taller. Sleeker. Wearing a scarf that somehow screamed “I'm with HR.” “Oh hell,” Blazette groaned. “It’s the Bureau.” “The what-now?” Fang-Face asked, already flexing in case violence was needed. “The Celestial Avian Bureau of Order and Oopsies,” the new goose intoned, her voice a cold breeze across their minds. “I am Regulatory Agent Plumbella. I am here to investigate the unlawful hatching of Moltina, unauthorized coronation proceedings, and disturbance of multi-planar harmony.” “Unlawful hatching?!” Moltina squawked. “I AM THE FLAME OF ASCENSION! THE DESTINY-GOOSE OF LEGENDS!” “You were supposed to remain in cosmic stasis until the next galactic solstice,” Plumbella replied flatly. “Instead, you were poached out of your egg by a manic phoenix and a drama-lizard with caffeine issues.” Fang-Face raised a claw. “Objection. I’m more of a flamboyant chaos reptile, thank you.” “Doesn’t matter. The egg was sacred. The prophecy was clear: you were to bring balance to the celestial grid, not bedazzle the trees and start a jazz cult.” “It’s not a cult,” Moltina hissed. “It’s an enthusiasm-based goose movement!” “You summoned a cloud shaped like your own face that cries glitter,” Plumbella deadpanned. “That cloud has feelings!” Things escalated quickly. There was a dance-off. A very intense magical trivia round. At one point, Moltina and Plumbella battled in interpretive combat, using choreographed honks and feather-daggers woven from sarcastic wind. The forest held its breath. The frogs took bets. And then, right in the middle of a particularly dramatic goose pirouette, Fang-Face stomped a claw. “ENOUGH!” he bellowed. “Look, she may be premature, overpowered, and a bit of a tyrannical sparklebomb, but she’s ours. She chose us. We raised her. We taught her to swear in ten elemental dialects. Isn’t that what parenting’s about?” Blazette stepped up. “She’s part of this forest now. Whether she rules or throws cosmic tantrums in a tutu, she belongs here. Among her weird-ass family.” Plumbella paused. She looked around at the expectant faces — the badgers, the frogs, the possum choir now weeping softly into their velvet hoods — and she sighed. “Fine. One probationary cycle,” she said. “But if she summons another sky-llama, we’re having a very formal chat.” “Deal!” Moltina shouted, before hugging everyone at once in a burst of radiance and feathers. And so, the forest was saved. Or doomed. Or — more likely — somewhere deliciously in between. Fang-Face, Blazette, and Moltina went on to become the most infamous trio in Whisperwood. They hosted interdimensional comedy festivals. They co-authored a bestselling book on goose-based diplomacy. And once, they even got arrested for impersonating a prophecy. But that, dear reader, is another story.     Take the Mischief Home: If you’ve fallen in love with the feathered sass of Blazette, the fangy charm of Terrexalonious (a.k.a. Fang-Face), or the celestial chaos of Moltina, you can bring their legendary nonsense into your world — no forest residency required. Adorn your realm with the epic tale frozen in vivid detail, whether as a magical tapestry for your wall of wonders, a framed print that even Plumbella might approve of, or a canvas masterpiece worthy of its own coronation. And for the mischief-minded puzzle lover, dare to piece together the cosmic hilarity with this premium jigsaw puzzle — because even chaos can come in 500 tiny pieces. Available now at shop.unfocussed.com

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Fluff & Flutter

A Noseful of Chaos In the land of Flitterwhump, where dandelions danced to jazz and tea kettles gossiped at dusk, there lived a kitten named Toodles. Yes, Toodles. Don’t judge. Her full name was “Lady Toodlewump Fluffington III,” but after one too many hairballs during her cotillion, the name sort of... stuck. And frankly, if you’re a silver-dappled feline with glacial blue eyes and a tail so fluffy it required its own postcode, you learn to own your weirdness. Toodles had one rule: never trust anything with wings and an agenda. This was a rule born from a childhood incident involving a hummingbird, three spoiled sardines, and an accidental eyebrow singe. But today, that rule would be tested. Mercilessly. It started innocently enough. Toodles had just finished her daily glamour stretch—a high-arched back extension so glorious it once made a potted plant faint—and was in the process of delicately judging the neighborhood from the windowsill. That’s when it happened. A Monarch butterfly, drunk on pollen and audacity, landed square on her nose. The room froze. Somewhere, a spoon dropped. In the distance, a squirrel gasped. Toodles went cross-eyed, which, unfortunately, made her look like an emotionally unstable plush toy. She blinked. The butterfly blinked. (It didn’t, but Toodles swore it did, and frankly, her perception was the only one that mattered.) “Excuse me,” she meowed with impeccable diction, “you are trespassing on sacred fluff. That nose was blessed by a hedgehog monk in the village of Sniffenshire.” The butterfly remained perched, wings fluttering like it had gossip to share and nowhere to be. Toodles panicked. She tried a gentle paw swat. The butterfly dodged and landed on her tail. Toodles spun around like a caffeinated ballerina and promptly toppled into her succulent collection, which screamed dramatically, because everything in Flitterwhump was over-the-top and plant life was no exception. By the time she emerged—covered in potting soil, bits of lavender, and one particularly aggressive cactus spike—the butterfly had returned to her nose. Again. “Oh it’s war now, wing goblin,” she muttered. “Toodles does not negotiate with chaos.” And that, dear reader, was how it began. A tale of flirtation, frustration, and a cat with too much pride to admit she was completely outwitted by an airborne postage stamp with legs. The Fluffening Escalates Toodles was not the sort of cat who tolerated defeat. She once spent three consecutive Tuesdays attempting to outstare a portrait of her great-aunt Darlene just because the mustache had been painted slightly askew. (She won, of course. The portrait fell off the wall and was last seen sobbing in a thrift store.) So, you can imagine the psychological unraveling when this butterfly—this winged noodle of deceit—refused to acknowledge Toodles' sovereign nasal domain. Now, in Flitterwhump, cats had options. They could petition the Council of Mildly Concerned Hedgehogs. They could hire a disgraced owl private investigator. They could even bribe a family of voles to create a series of decoy butterflies using glitter and misplaced ambition. Toodles chose vengeance by theater. The next morning, she prepared her stage: a velvet chaise lounge (stolen from a gnome divorcée), a tin of anchovy pâté (lightly truffled), and her dramatic flower crown fashioned from geraniums, rosemary, and one incredibly passive-aggressive dahlia. She posed on the chaise as if she were contemplating the futility of existence—or at least how dramatic she could look while holding in a sneeze. The butterfly returned right on cue. A diva always knows her spotlight. “Welcome back,” Toodles purred, tail twitching with restrained lunacy. “I see you’ve accepted my invitation to our duel of the fates.” Instead of engaging in mortal combat, the butterfly… danced. Not just any dance. It performed an aerial ballet so majestic, so fluid, it made the clouds pause to weep softly in applause. It looped around Toodles’ whiskers, spiraled through sunbeams like they were champagne bubbles, and ended with a dainty curtsy atop her left eyebrow. Toodles hated how impressed she was. “Fine,” she hissed, leaping up and flopping back down in an act of protest. “You’ve bested me in grace. But can you juggle?” She tossed three chestnuts into the air with her back paw. They landed on her head. The butterfly landed on one of them, smug as a librarian with a secret. “Ugh. Your face is like a warm breeze wrapped in smug marmalade,” she grumbled. “Are you even real?!” The butterfly flapped once, twice—and then, like all mystic creatures with a sense of timing more dramatic than a Regency widow, it spoke. Not with words. With vibes. With the tickle of truth behind the ears. With the knowing twinkle of a being that had seen interdimensional ferrets and survived. “I am Zephoria,” it seemed to hum through the pollen-swirled air. “Spirit of transformation, mistress of brief landings, and destroyer of personal space.” Toodles blinked. “Destroyer of—? You’re a space invader with a cute butt, that’s what you are.” Zephoria gave a wing shrug. “And yet here you are, talking to me instead of knocking me into your litter box.” “Only because I respect your audacity,” Toodles admitted, finally surrendering to the seductive power of nonsense. “And also because if I move again, I’ll sneeze out a whole tulip.” The butterfly chuckled, which sounded like tiny tambourines being tickled. “Perhaps,” Zephoria offered, “you’ve spent so long chasing away the unexpected, you’ve forgotten how to dance with it.” Toodles rolled her eyes so hard it triggered a minor windstorm. “Oh don’t start with the magical metaphors. Next thing I know, you’ll tell me I’m secretly a time-traveling cloud or some philosophical pastry.” Zephoria tilted her wings just so. “You’re not. But your tail might be.” The two stared at each other in absurd, slightly unhinged harmony. That evening, Toodles didn’t hiss at the bees. She didn’t growl at the moon. She did, however, invite Zephoria to perch on her head like a ludicrous fascinator, and together they paraded through the town square as if it were a runway covered in gossip and rhinestones. And thus began the great Flitterwhump Butterfly Incident of the Year—an event that would be whispered about by teacups and sung by slightly inebriated garden gnomes for generations to come. But that, dear reader, is the sugar-frosted cherry on the next ridiculous chapter. The Ballad of Toodles and the Winged Menace It all spiraled—no, pirouetted—out of control on the third day. By then, Zephoria the butterfly had become something of a local celebrity. Toodles, to her horror and reluctant pride, was now referred to in neighborhood gossip as “The Cat of Graceful Chaos.” Children threw her air kisses from balconies. The local ducks asked for autographs. One particularly ambitious squirrel began selling tiny velvet capes claiming they were “Toodles-Approved™.” (They were not.) “It’s like living inside a fairy tale,” Toodles complained, sprawled across a pouf made of retired sock puppets. “But one written by a raccoon who drinks glitter and screams about taxes.” Zephoria, meanwhile, was running a support group for underappreciated airborne insects in the garden gazebo. She held sessions twice daily under the title Wing Therapy: Finding Your Flap in a Rigid World. The ladybugs adored her. The bees were hesitant. The moths just kept trying to eat the pamphlets. But as the saying goes in Flitterwhump, “Fame’s a fickle ferret with frosting for morals.” Things got weird. And that’s saying something, considering this was a realm where hedgehogs had dental plans and most mirrors could quote Oscar Wilde. It began when a rival butterfly named Chadwick appeared. Chadwick was everything Zephoria wasn’t: muscular, broody, and annoyingly fond of leather vests. He flapped with menace. He hummed with mystery. He insisted on introducing himself with, “The name’s Chadwick. Just Chadwick. Like moonlight... but darker.” “What in the name of scented compost is that?” Toodles asked as Chadwick arrived on a Harley snail. “Did a romance novel fall into a vat of protein powder?” Zephoria, to her credit, tried diplomacy. “Welcome, Chadwick. Would you like to join our mindfulness circle and unpack your unresolved chrysalis trauma?” Chadwick scoffed. “Nah. I came to challenge you. And your floofy mount.” Toodles fluffed herself indignantly. “Excuse me?! I am not a mount. I am a legend. I have whiskers insured by the Ministry of Feline Drama.” “Exactly,” Chadwick said with a smirk. “Which makes this the perfect battlefield.” And just like that, the Flitterwhump Annual Wing-Off was declared. (There hadn’t been one before, but bureaucracy was very fast in this part of the world when drama was involved.) The rules? Simple. Two butterflies. One feline runway. A series of increasingly absurd challenges judged by a panel of semi-retired flamingos and one very cranky tortoise named Gary. Challenge One: The Loop-de-Flap. Chadwick went first, swooping through seven garden hoops while quoting existential poetry. Zephoria responded by spelling out the phrase “Consent is sexy” with her flight path. Toodles applauded. Challenge Two: The Wind Tunnel Waltz. Chadwick powered through, wings slicing the air like avocado toast through a millennial brunch. Zephoria pirouetted softly and dropped flower petals behind her like a slightly judgmental wedding fairy. Challenge Three: The Nose Stand. This one was personal. The butterflies had to perch on Toodles’ nose without tickling her into sneezing, flinching, or sass-shouting. Chadwick landed, puffed his thorax, and struck a pose. Toodles, unimpressed, let out a tiny fart. Chadwick fled in disgrace. Zephoria landed gracefully, offered a wink, and whispered, “Still not over that cactus, are we?” The crowd went feral. Gnomes threw tiny roses. A teacup sobbed. Someone passed out from delight. Gary the tortoise blinked for the first time in a decade. Victory was Zephoria’s. Toodles preened in the limelight, pretending she hadn’t just sneezed a tulip stem out her left nostril. But just when you thought the fluffstorm had passed, Zephoria turned to Toodles and said something that shattered the nonsense bubble entirely. “I’m leaving.” Toodles froze mid-paw-lick. “Come again?” “My work here is done,” Zephoria said gently. “You don’t need me to dance chaos into your world anymore. You’re doing it just fine on your own.” Toodles blinked. Her ears tilted in emotional confusion. “But who will keep me humble? Who will perch on my tail and make me question the nature of reality while insulting my eyeliner?” Zephoria flapped closer, brushing her wings against Toodles' cheek. “You have an entire world to flirt with, fuss at, and occasionally sit on. You’ll be fine. And besides, I heard there’s a philosophical bat colony up north in need of someone with wing charisma and a borderline unhinged moral compass.” And just like that, she flapped away—trailing sparkles, gossip, and a final note: "Toodles, you glorious fluffstorm, never let your nose be ruled by reason." Toodles stared into the sky long after Zephoria vanished into the clouds. Then, with dramatic purpose, she flopped backward into a bed of daisies, farted just a little, and whispered: “I was born to be confusing.” And the daisies nodded.     ✨ Take a Little Fluff & Flutter Home If the tale of Toodles and Zephoria tickled your whiskers, why not invite a piece of their whimsical world into yours? Whether you’re lounging like a fluff queen, sending giggles in the mail, or redecorating your magical lair, we’ve got you covered—literally. Wrap yourself in storytelling with this vibrant tapestry, or bring nature’s sass into your spa day with our ultra-charming bath towel. For those who like their art grounded and grainy, the wood print version offers a tactile, storybook feel with just a hint of nose-tickling nostalgia. And don’t forget the greeting card—perfect for sending fluttery vibes, random cat wisdom, or declarations of aesthetic superiority to your favorite fellow weirdos. Snag one, snag them all. Zephoria would approve (and Toodles would pretend she doesn’t care—but she absolutely does).

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Curly Mischief and Meadow Gifts

The Petal Hustler of Dandelion Hollow In the sprightly green blush of early spring, the meadows of Dandelion Hollow woke up with a sneeze. Literally. One sneeze from the old alder tree at the top of the hill and *poof*—pollen snowed like fairy dandruff. Somewhere between the sneeze and the startled squirrels, a child-sized blur zigzagged across the hillside, leaving muddy footprints and unplucked tulips in her wake. This was Pip. Pip of the curls. Pip of the boots. Pip of the Very Slightly Illegal Dandelion Exchange Program. At four-and-three-quarters years old (she insisted on the three-quarters), Pip had mastered the art of charm warfare. She could weaponize a smile, ambush with dimples, and dismantle even the crankiest witch with a single curly ringlet bounce. Her main hustle? Wildflower procurement. "Gifted" daisies for trade, usually swapped for cookies, buttons, or dangerously sharp sticks. Pip believed sharp sticks were currency. The goblins on the north edge agreed. The fairies did not. She called them “sparkle snobs” and refused to share her jam. On this particular morning, Pip was armed with a linen dress full of mischief, a turquoise pendant she “found” (read: liberated from a crow), and two freshly picked daisies still dripping with dew. The pendant made her look suspiciously magical. The daisies made her look innocent. Combined? A con artist in alpaca boots. She stomped up to the hollow’s main path where a row of sleepy forest dwellers were waiting for the Monday morning barter queue to open. With wide eyes and a grin soaked in sunshine and chaos, Pip clutched her flowers, looked up at the tall toadstool clerk, and said with syrupy sweetness: “One daisy for a marmalade scone. Two daisies, and I forget you snore like a walrus in heat.” The queue blinked. Then someone clapped. Then someone else shouted, “You’ve been out-haggled by a toddler!” And thus began Pip’s most glorious morning of spring—where she would trade, sass, dance, and flower-hustle her way to local legend status… until she accidentally triggered a minor war with the bees. Pip v. The Buzzed & Slightly Stingy Collective After her floral hustle had thoroughly disrupted Monday commerce and earned her three scones, a rusty button, and an owl feather she immediately stuck up her nose, Pip wandered deeper into the thicket. The sun filtered through new leaves like lemony lace, and the whole hollow smelled like damp moss and possibilities. But something was off. The bees were watching. Now, to be fair, bees always watched Pip. She had history. Last spring she “borrowed” a hexagon-shaped honeycomb chunk to use as a tambourine. A week later, she orchestrated a "pollination parade" using stolen petals, ten confused ants, and a kazoo. Her defense had been: “It was for educational enrichment.” The bees had not found this enriching. So when Pip marched into the clover patch with her hands full of daisies and her ego inflated like a squirrel on kombucha, the local hive—formally known as the Buzzed & Slightly Stingy Collective—activated Code Gold. Which is to say, they sent their smallest, angriest lawyer-bee to intercept. “MISS PIP!” came a shrill voice from above. She looked up, one eye squinting against the sun. “Oh poop. It’s Barry.” Barry the barrister bee wore a monocle, a vest that had clearly seen better threads, and a scowl that could ferment apple juice. He hovered menacingly in front of her, buzzing like a mosquito with a diploma. “You stand accused,” Barry bellowed, “of unlawful daisy decapitation, reckless dew redistribution, and intent to barter pollinator property without permit!” Pip blinked slowly. “I also licked a toad this morning. Should I add that to the list?” Barry’s wings vibrated at legal-speed fury. “You will present yourself before the Hive Court immediately or suffer pollen-based sentencing!” “What does that mean?” “It means WE SMOTHER YOUR ARMPITS IN SUNFLOWER SEEDS UNTIL THE BIRDS FIND YOU.” So Pip went quietly. Mostly because she was curious about Hive Court snacks.     The Trial Held inside a hollowed-out acorn with dramatically oversized leaves arranged like judge’s benches, Hive Court was a cross between a legal proceeding and a group therapy session hosted by a tulip. Fairies hovered in press boxes. A hedgehog in spectacles was sketching rapidly on moss. Barry stood proudly at the front, buzzing with self-importance. Pip sat on a milk cap stool with her boots dangling and her mouth full of acorn brittle. When asked to state her name for the record, she replied, “Princess Daisy Snugglebutt, Duchess of Whimsy, Queen of Slight Chaos, and part-time snack thief.” The courtroom rustled. One juror—a frog named Clarence—snorted. Barry launched into his opening argument, full of “intent to pilfer nectar assets” and “botanical exploitation by minor woodland elementals.” He dramatically waved a wilting daisy as Exhibit A, which unfortunately sneezed on him. Pip’s defense? Equally dramatic: “Ladies and gentlebugs! I do not deny I picked daisies. I do not deny I made deals. But I ask you—who among us hasn’t bartered a flower for a snack or manipulated an emotionally unstable gnome for a pouch of glitter dust? Am I a menace? Possibly. But I’m YOUR menace. And I smell like jam.” Thunderous applause. One juror fainted. Barry wept into his monocle. The Queen Bee herself—Her Most Syrupy Majesty, Bzzzzelda—was wheeled in on a petal chariot. She asked only one question: “Did you at least say thank you to the flowers?” Pip paused. Her eyes grew wide. She whispered, “I… forgot.” The courtroom gasped. “THEN THE SENTENCE IS…” Bzzzzelda buzzed, drawing out the pause like an overripe banana peel, “...Community Service!” Pip clapped. “Oh good. I thought you were gonna put me in a thistle!” Barry fainted. The Queen’s wings flicked. “You will be assigned to the Pollination Encouragement Task Force. Your job is to inspire plants. Make them feel... wanted.” Pip tilted her head. “Like... emotional pollination?” “Yes. And it starts tomorrow. Wear something inspiring.” Pip’s mind was already racing. A tutu. A flower crown. Possibly stilts. She was going to be the Beyoncé of bee-themed botany in no time. But first—there was one more daisy left to trade. And maybe, just maybe, a certain grumpy gnome owed her a lollipop and an apology for calling her “a shrieking fuzzball with flower kleptomania.” Petal to the Metal The next morning, Pip emerged from her moss-curtain doorway looking like a fever dream had made a pact with spring fashion and lost control halfway through. She wore a tutu fashioned from stolen daffodil petals (no longer attached to the daffodils), a sash made from thistle fluff, and a towering floral crown that made her look like a tiny, unstable maypole. At her feet were boots smeared with yesterday’s jam, and in her hands? A ukelele she didn’t know how to play and a motivational sign that read: “GROW, YA LAZY BLOOMS!” “Pollination Encouragement Task Force, Day One,” she declared. “Let the pep-talkening commence.”     The Pep Parade Pip’s first stop was the daisy patch. She marched straight in and struck a powerful pose, arms wide, crown wobbling like an unlicensed circus act. “You! Yes, you! You chlorophyll-challenged cuties! You got this! You’re the Beyoncé of blooming! Photosynthesize like you MEAN it!” The daisies swayed gently in what may have been a breeze or might have been pure confusion. Then came the tulips. She leaned in, whispered, “You’re fabulous. Don’t let the daffodils gaslight you. You were early bloomers before it was cool.” The roses got a full interpretive dance titled ‘Unfurling the Inner You’, which involved a lot of spinning, yelling compliments, and accidentally kicking over a hedgehog tea stand. The violets blushed so hard they went magenta. The buttercups tried to stage a walkout but Pip convinced them to stay with a rousing monologue about resilience and root strength. By noon, she had cheered, chanted, sung (badly), rapped (worse), and pantomimed pollination using two dandelion heads and a worm named Gus. Gus gave a surprisingly heartfelt performance and later received a leaf medal for bravery. The bees followed her at a distance like confused lifeguards at a nudist beach. Barry, still nursing his monocle trauma, took notes while muttering, “Technically effective… legally insane…” The Incident with the Foxglove It was all going so well—until the foxglove. You see, foxgloves are dramatic. They’re the theater kids of the plant world: gorgeous, toxic, and extremely likely to break into Shakespeare if left unsupervised. Pip strutted up, struck her best “floral influencer” pose, and shouted: “Y’all are fierce. You’re long, you’re loud, and you’re LETHAL. Slay, queens!” And the foxgloves did what foxgloves do best. They burst into a spontaneous flash mob of spoken-word poetry about existential dread and pollen oppression. One of them fainted. Another one quoted Sylvia Plath. Barry the bee had to be restrained from legal action due to ‘emotional endangerment by metaphor.’ Pip just clapped. “Ten outta ten. Would bloom again.”     The Blossoming By late afternoon, something strange started happening. The entire glade shimmered with growth. The bees were buzzing in actual harmony. The snapdragons were smiling. The violets had stopped blushing and were now giggling. Even the old grumpy stump that hadn’t sprouted in thirty years had pushed up a rogue crocus in what could only be described as a “mild flirtation with vitality.” Her Majesty Bzzzzelda arrived with a buzzing entourage and a tiny scroll. “We, the Collective, officially pardon Pip of all prior offenses on the grounds that she is… annoyingly effective.” Pip bowed. “I accept your forgiveness. I also accept tips in the form of honey and shiny rocks.” As the sun set over Dandelion Hollow, Pip returned home with a daisy crown askew, a smear of moss on her chin, and a grin that could power a village. She had no intention of stopping. She had a mission now. Tomorrow she would start “Operation: Root Awakening” for the grumpy cabbage patch. Because in the end, Pip didn’t just cheer for flowers. She believed in them. And whether it was a daisy with dreams or a depressed daffodil in a mid-season crisis, she would be there with boots on, petals in hand, and absolutely zero chill. Spring would never be the same. Bring Pip Home with You If Pip stole your heart (and possibly your snacks), why not let her bring a little chaos and charm into your world? "Curly Mischief and Meadow Gifts" is now available as a delightful canvas print for your gallery wall, a cozy fleece blanket to curl up with during story time, a whimsical tapestry for your enchanted nook, or even a framed print worthy of Hive Court itself: framed print. Adopt a little wildflower magic, boost your wall’s attitude, and let Pip bloom where you hang her. She's got curls, she's got daisies, and she absolutely demands to be fabulous in your living room.    

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Watcher of the Fractal Rift

The Contract of Bones and Bubbles Every few centuries, the ocean forgets how to lie. When that happens, it sends something ancient to the surface—just briefly—to remind the world that monsters don’t need to be evil. They only need to be patient. The Watcher of the Fractal Rift wasn’t born. It was exhaled, like a sigh from the deep tectonic lips of the world. Its flesh—scaled like volcanic armor, its claws—weathered into brutal honesty, and its shell—a massive, barnacled library of forgotten crimes. Its name wasn’t always the Watcher. For a time, it went by “The Beast With the Bureaucracy Fetish,” thanks to an unfortunate entanglement with a drowned city-state that thought forming a council to worship it might win them favor. Spoiler: it didn’t. Somewhere beneath the Mariana Slouch (a rift deeper than the Trench but too lazy to hold record-breaking status), the Watcher stirred again. The reef above it had begun to burn—not with fire, but with ideas. Human divers had found it. Not it directly, of course. Just a heat shimmer, a few bubbles that tasted like crushed secrets, and a fossilized merman with what appeared to be a “Live, Laugh, Lurk” tattoo on his pelvis. The Watcher was not pleased. Ancient beings don’t do well with exposure. The internet had not been kind. An AI-enhanced sonar scan labeled the Watcher as a “turtle-dragon-muppet hybrid with trust issues.” This had 4.2 million views on TikTok, and one influencer named “DrenchedMami88” had already announced her intention to ride it for likes. So the Watcher ascended. Not because it wanted to destroy humanity. Oh no. It had done that before, in a previous geological epoch, and frankly it was exhausting. No, this time, it wanted to file a complaint. A proper one. In triplicate. It rose through curtains of crimson coral and electric-blue fractals—its claws slicing the water with righteous bureaucracy. Along the way, it accidentally devoured three jellyfish cults and one sentient coral opera troupe. It didn’t mean to. They just... floated wrong. At 800 meters below the surface, the Watcher paused. A pair of human eyes stared back at it through a reinforced diving helmet. “Whoa,” the diver breathed. “It’s like... an angry grandpa made of reef and trauma.” The Watcher blinked. Slowly. Then it did something no one expected: it signed. Underwater hand gestures. Fluid movements that spoke of decades in therapy and one particularly traumatizing internship with Poseidon’s legal department. The Watcher gestured: You have 48 hours to vacate my mythos. The diver, understandably, peed a little. What followed was the beginning of a new era—one of haunted negotiations, bureaucratic hauntings, and the slow unravelling of everything humanity thought it knew about sea life, cosmic justice, and the real reason lobsters scream when boiled (hint: it's not the heat—it's the paperwork). But the story doesn’t end here. No, this was merely the handshake. The opening clause. The preamble to a contract none of us remember signing... Of Pelicans, Paperwork, and the Rage of Coral The thing about negotiating with ancient, eldritch sea turtles is that your first instinct—run, scream, upload—is always wrong. And also, counterproductive. The Watcher of the Fractal Rift did not forget. It didn’t forgive. But most terrifyingly, it followed up. Three days after the initial encounter, an intern at the Pacific Geological Survey office named Jasmine received a waterproof scroll via certified orca courier. It was etched in bioluminescent squid ink and wrapped in tendrils of passive-aggressive kelp. The heading read: FORM 1089-R: Request for Mythological Non-Disclosure Rectification Jasmine did not have clearance for this form. She also did not have emotional stability, an exoskeleton, or even caffeine, since someone named Ken had “borrowed” the communal cold brew again. What she did have was an instinct for escalation, so she slid it into the “Probably Not Our Problem” tray, which triggered a proximity alert at Oceanic Legal, Level 9: Myth Management & Deep Rifts Division. Meanwhile, beneath the waves, the Watcher waited. And watched. And mentally composed a withering Yelp review for Earth’s hospitality. But patience was beginning to calcify into something worse—hope. Hope that maybe, this time, the surface dwellers would get it right. That they’d stop poking holes in myths and calling it “content.” That they’d respect the sanctity of coral courts and the rift’s living laws. Hope, unfortunately, has a taste. Like betrayal steeped in lemon brine. And just as it was about to sink back into dormant rage, the Watcher was visited by The Ghost of a Pelican That Regrets Everything™. “Gerald,” the Watcher intoned, without turning its head. The pelican’s ghost swirled into view, translucent, bloated with guilt and vintage anchovies. “You’re mad,” Gerald wheezed, his beak flickering like an existential screensaver. “You encouraged the cult,” the Watcher rumbled. “They were offering snacks!” Gerald snapped. “How was I to know the ‘Salted Flesh of the Shell Warden’ was a metaphor?” The Watcher exhaled. Bubbles spiraled upward like regret in champagne. “What do you want, Gerald?” “To help,” the ghost replied. “To stop another ocean-wide panic. You remember the Mackerel Schism.” The Watcher remembered. Thousands of fish flipping political allegiance mid-current. Anchovy uprisings. Swordfish rhetoric. It had been exhausting. “They need a representative,” Gerald said. “Someone who can mediate between your grievances and their... ridiculous TikTok dances.” “They’ll send a fool,” the Watcher murmured. “They always do.” And he was right. Enter: Trevor. Middle management. Human Resources liaison for the Department of Subaquatic Compliance and Public Mythos Transparency. His LinkedIn bio included “proficient in spreadsheets” and “once survived an awkward dolphin encounter.” Trevor was flown in by helicopter, strapped into a neoprene suit that cost more than his car, and dropped with great optimism into the abyss. He arrived at the designated meeting rift—glowing, thrumming, lined with fractal coral that hissed passive insults like, “Nice haircut, corporate drone” and “Your ancestors evolved gills for this?” The Watcher emerged from the shadows like the memory of a tax audit. Slowly. Impossibly large. Its presence made Trevor’s kidneys contract in primal reverence. “Oh sweet bureaucracy,” Trevor gasped, flailing. “You’re real. You’re... glistening.” “You are the emissary?” the Watcher asked, voice rolling like tectonic plates muttering about job security. Trevor fumbled for his laminated ID. “Trevor Benson, Myth Liaison Specialist. I brought... the folder.” The Watcher blinked. Slowly. Folders were a good sign. Or at least less offensive than harpoons or YouTube channels. “Then we begin,” the Watcher said. “With the First Clause: Reckoning.” Trevor opened the folder and promptly passed out. Because the First Clause was alive. It slithered from the page, ink forming spectral tentacles of obligation. It whispered tax codes and grandmotherly disappointment. It made a small child in Argentina sneeze out of season. It was, in every sense, a haunted memo. Gerald reappeared. “It’s... going well, I think.” The reef shook. The coral screamed. Every polyp within five leagues screamed a single word in unison: “DENIED!” Trevor woke up vomiting seawater and generational shame. He flailed again. “Wait! I—I brought amendments! Suggested revisions! A four-point plan with interdepartmental synergy!” That last part stopped everything. The coral quieted. Gerald hiccupped. Even the Watcher tilted its colossal head. “Did you say... synergy?” “Yes!” Trevor gasped. “And a diversity initiative. We’re prepared to rename invasive species in accordance with rift heritage.” The Watcher studied this small, trembling fool. This oddly sincere little mammal with corporate printouts and too much cologne. It considered annihilation. Then considered... precedent. “You have until the next lunar bloom to present terms the Rift can respect,” the Watcher intoned. “Fail, and the sea will rise—not in anger, but compliance.” Trevor nodded, shaking like a wet Chihuahua in a thunderstorm. “Understood. May I—uh—return to my boat?” “The trench provides,” the Watcher said cryptically, and the reef unceremoniously spat Trevor upward like a regretful burp. Gerald hovered beside the Watcher. “You’re going soft.” “No,” the Watcher replied. “I’m going legal.” And somewhere far above, a jellyfish influencer posted a new reel titled #TurtleDaddyReturns, tagging a location she did not understand and a fate she could not avoid. Because the sea was awake now. The Watcher was listening. And the coral? Oh, it was taking notes. The Final Clause and the Surface That Forgot For exactly one lunar bloom—twenty-eight tidal contractions, four hundred reef seizures, and an unsettling number of dolphins unionizing—Trevor scrambled to prepare. Back on the surface, he worked from a borrowed fishing boat converted into a makeshift office. He installed a printer powered by guilt and solar panels, dictated amendments via kelp-wrapped microphone, and coordinated a team of myth compliance specialists via seagull courier (less reliable than email, but far more dramatic). He didn't sleep. He barely ate. He only cried once—when the AI-generated proposal for clause simplification autocorrected “Watcher of the Fractal Rift” to “Turt Daddy Vibes.” Meanwhile, the sea waited. And dreamed. Down where light becomes myth and temperature becomes threat, the Watcher stirred among the fractals of living law. The coral—pulsing in slow, vengeful Morse—compiled lists of violations committed by the surface: improper myth disposal, cultural reef appropriation, unauthorized whale-meme production, disrespectful kelp harvesting. The reef was done being ornamental. It had grown teeth—metaphorical and otherwise. Worse, the Archive Octopus had risen. This ancient, ink-stained cephalopod lived nestled inside a spiral of petrified myth. It remembered everything—every lie whispered into a shell, every deity demoted to a children’s cartoon, every coral poem turned into stock footage. It now served as archivist and arbitrator for the Watcher’s case. It also wore bifocals and passive-aggressive pearls. “I have reviewed the brief,” the Octopus said, her voice slick with disdain. “Trevor has submitted 422 pages of ‘amended clauses,’ a playlist, and—bafflingly—a scented bath bomb called ‘Tranquili-sea.’” The Watcher frowned. “I liked the bath bomb.” “That is not relevant,” the Octopus hissed. “What is relevant is that this mortal’s proposal includes a clause recognizing reef consciousness, reparations in the form of sustainable story licensing, and a quarterly performance review for humanity’s myth behavior.” The coral began to murmur. Not scream. Not roar. Just whisper—dangerously—like a gossip with a grudge and all the receipts. “Let him speak,” the Watcher finally said. Trevor, visibly moist with stress, descended in a personal submersible that resembled a soup can with ambition. He wore a suit. It was crumpled. His tie had fish on it. He cleared his throat and held up a waterproof binder labeled “Initiative: Operation LoreHarmony.” “Esteemed... entities,” he began, voice trembling like a squid at a sushi festival. “We recognize that humanity has—uh—extracted, sensationalized, and memeified your existence. We’ve commodified myth and flattened magic into marketing. For that, we offer... structure.” The Watcher blinked, slow and tectonic. Trevor flipped the binder open. “Item one: annual symposiums on myth integrity, hosted jointly by surface and rift. Item two: revenue-sharing agreements for merchandising rights. Item three: restoration of previously redacted legends through official platforms—Wikipedia, folklore podcasts, late-night cable documentaries. Item four: a warning label system for any human fiction featuring underwater beings.” The reef hissed. The coral spat bubbles. The Archive Octopus adjusted her pearls. “And finally,” Trevor said, voice cracking, “item five: the establishment of a Department of Mythos Relations—a permanent council of surface-dwellers and sentient sea creatures to govern the boundaries between truth and tourism.” Silence. Then: “He forgot the ceremonial reef snack,” Gerald whispered in horror. But the Watcher raised one massive, clawed flipper. “Enough.” Its voice made the sea still. Even the currents knelt. “You come not with fear, or weapons, or false reverence. But with paperwork, performance metrics, and olive oil-stained ambition. I see in you the flaws of your species... but also its ridiculous hope.” The Watcher swam forward, massive eyes glowing with ancient light. “Very well.” It extended one claw. Trevor stared. Hesitated. Then reached out and shook it. The Contract was sealed. Not in blood. Not in fire. But in mutual disillusionment and complicated policy. Which, in ancient mythic terms, is far more binding. The Archive Octopus sighed. “Fine. I’ll draft the final copy in triplicate. Anyone got a pen that doesn’t scream when used on wet vellum?” And so the Council of LoreHarmony was born. The Watcher returned to its rift—not in anger, but in exhausted hope. The reef quieted. Gerald ascended to the Upper Pelican Plane, where regret is optional and fish are always consenting. And Trevor? Well, he became head of Mythos HR, writing memos like: “Reminder: If you see a kelp construct whispering your childhood fears, please file a Form 2-B before engaging.” But the sea... it remembers. Every story. Every insult. Every unpaid mythological debt. So tell your tales wisely, surface-walker. Because deep below, a red eye still glows. A contract still waits. And the coral? It’s still taking notes.     Bring the Rift Home If you're ready to take a piece of mythic madness into your space, our Watcher of the Fractal Rift collection is now available on select products. Whether you want to wrap yourself in oceanic lore, stare into the abyss over morning coffee, or simply confuse your guests with a fractal turtle guardian—they’re all here, waiting. Tapestry – Drape a legend across your wall, doorway, or altar to interdimensional bureaucracy. Framed Print – For the office, dungeon, or aquarium lobby that craves quiet intimidation. Acrylic Print – As vivid and reflective as the Watcher’s own armored hide. Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together the abyss, one mildly cursed shard at a time. Weekender Tote – Because even reef gods need luggage. Shop the myth. Display the Watcher. Disturb your guests.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

A Glimmer in the Grove

The World’s Most Inconvenient Miracle The dragon was not supposed to exist. At least, that’s what they told Elira back in the Overgrown Library, between musty sips of mildew-scented tea and “you wouldn’t understand, dear” looks from mages with more beard than bones. Dragons were extinct, extinct, extinct. Full stop. Period. End of majestic epoch. It had been centuries since a flame-blooded egg so much as twitched, much less hatched. Which is why Elira was fully unprepared to discover one sitting in her breakfast bowl. Yes, the egg had looked odd—like a glittering gob of moonlight dipped in raspberry jam—but she’d been hungover and ravenous and assumed the innkeeper was just very into poultry aesthetics. It wasn’t until her spoon clinked against the shell and the entire thing wobbled, chirped, and hatched with a dramatic “ta-da” puff of flower-scented smoke that Elira finally dropped her spoon and screamed like someone who had found a lizard in their latte. The creature that emerged was absurd. A sassy marshmallow with legs. Its body was covered in soft, iridescent scales that shimmered from cream to plum to fuchsia depending on how dramatically it tilted its head. Which it did often, and always with the bored grace of a woodland diva who knows you’re not paying enough attention to its tragic cuteness. “Oh, no. Nope. Absolutely not,” Elira said, backing away from the table. “Whatever this is, I didn’t sign up for it.” The dragon blinked its disproportionately large eyes—glittering oceans with lashes so thick they could swat away existential crises—and made a pitiful squeak. Then it flopped dramatically into her toast and made a show of dying from neglect. “You manipulative little mushroom,” Elira muttered, scooping it off her plate before it soaked up all the jam. “You’re lucky I’m emotionally starved and weirdly susceptible to cute things.” That was Day One. By Day Two, it had claimed her satchel, named itself “Pip,” and emotionally blackmailed half the village into feeding it strawberries dipped in honey and affection. On Day Three, it started glowing. Literally. “You can’t just glimmer like that!” she hissed, trying to shove Pip under her cloak as they passed through the Moonpetal Market. “This is supposed to be low-profile. Incognito.” Pip, nestled in her hood, blinked up with the deadpan stare of a creature who had already filed a complaint with the universe about how loud her boots were. Then he glimmered harder, brighter, practically sending sunbeams out of his nose. “You little spotlight, I swear—” “Oh my gods!” cried a woman at a jewelry stall. “Is that a dracling?” Pip chirped smugly. Elira ran. The next time they hid out, it was in an overgrown grove so thick with pink foliage and lazily swirling pollen, it looked like a perfume ad for woodland nymphs. It was there—deep in the heart of that glimmering bower—that Pip curled up beside a mushroom, sighed like a toddler who’d just manipulated their parent into a pony, and gave her the look. “What?” she asked, arms crossed. “I’m not adopting you. You’re just tagging along because the alternative is being dissected by weird scholars.” Pip pressed a paw to his heart and fake-wept. A nearby butterfly passed out from emotional exposure. Elira groaned. “Fine. But no peeing on my boots, no catching fire indoors, and absolutely no singing.” He winked. And thus began the most gloriously inconvenient relationship of her life. Puberty and Pyromancy Are Basically the Same Thing Life with Pip was an exercise in boundaries, all of which he ignored with the reckless abandon of a toddler on espresso. By the second week, Elira had learned several painful truths: dragons molt (disgustingly), they hoard shiny things (including, unfortunately, live bees), and they cry in a pitch so high it makes your brain do origami. He also bit things when startled—including her left butt cheek once, which was not how she envisioned her noble destiny unfolding. But she couldn’t deny it: there was something kind of... magical about him. Not in the expected “oh wow he breathes fire” way, but in the “he knows when I’m crying even if I’m three trees away and hiding it like a champ” way. In the “he brings me moss hearts on bad days” way. In the “I woke up from a nightmare and he was already glaring at the darkness like he could bite it into submission” way. Which made it really hard to be rational about what came next. Puberty. Or, as she came to know it: the Fourteen Days of Magical Hellscapes. It started with a sneeze. A tiny one. Adorable, really. Pip had been napping in her cloak, curled like a cinnamon roll with wings, when he woke up, sniffled, and sneezed—unleashing a full-blown shockwave that incinerated her bedroll, two nearby bushes, and one perfectly innocent songbird that had been mid-aria. It reappeared ten minutes later, singed but melodically committed, and flipped him the feather. “We’re going to die,” Elira said calmly, ash in her eyebrows. Over the next week, Pip did the following: Set fire to their soup. From inside his mouth. While trying to taste it. Flew for the first time. Into a tree. Which he then tried to sue for assault. Discovered that tail flicks could be weaponized emotionally and physically. Shrieked for four hours straight after she called him “my spark nugget” in front of a handsome potion courier. But worst of all—the horror—was when he started talking. Not in words at first. Just humming noises and emotional squeaks. Then came gestures. Dramatic head flops. Pointed sighs. And then... words. “Elri. Elriya. You... you... potato queen,” he said on day twelve, puffing his chest with pride. “Excuse me?” “You smell like... thunder cheese. But heart good.” “Well, thank you for that emotionally confusing statement.” “I bite people who look at you too long. Is love?” “Oh gods.” “I love Elriya. But also love sticks. And cheese. And murder.” “You are a confusing little gremlin,” she whispered, half-laughing, half-crying as he curled into her lap. That night, she couldn't sleep. Not from fear or Pip-induced anxiety (for once), but because something had shifted. There was a connection between them now—more than instinct, more than survival. Pip had tangled his little dragon soul into hers, and the damn thing fit. It terrified her. She’d spent years alone on purpose. Being needed, being wanted—those were foreign currencies, expensive and risky. But this pink, glowing, emotionally manipulative salamander with opinions about soup was cracking her open like a fire-blossom seed in summer. So she ran. At dawn, with Pip asleep under her scarf, Elira scribbled a note on a leaf with a coal nub and snuck off. She didn’t go far—just to the edge of the grove, just enough to breathe without feeling the soft weight of his trust on her ribs. By noon, she’d cried twice, punched a tree, and eaten half a loaf of resentment bread. She missed him like she’d grown an extra limb that screamed when he wasn’t nearby. She returned just after sunset. Pip was gone. Her scarf lay in the grass like a surrendered flag. Next to it, three moss hearts and a single, tiny note scrawled in charcoal on a flat stone. Elriya go. Pip not chase. Pip wait. If love... come back. She sat down so fast her knees cracked. The stone burned in her palm. It was the most mature thing he’d ever done. She found him the next morning. He’d nested in the crook of a willow tree, surrounded by shiny twigs, abandoned buttons, and the broken dreams of seventeen butterflies who couldn’t emotionally handle his brooding energy. “You’re such a little drama beast,” she whispered, scooping him up. He just snuggled under her chin and whispered, “Thunder cheese,” with tearful sincerity. “Yeah,” she sighed, stroking his wing. “I missed you too.” Later that night, as they curled in the soft glow of the grove’s pulsing flowers, Elira realized something. She didn’t care that he was a dragon. Or a magical miracle. Or a flammable cryptid toddler with abandonment issues and a superiority complex. He was hers. And she was his. And that was enough to start a legend. Of Forest Gods and Flaming Feelings The thing no one tells you about raising a magical creature is that eventually… someone comes to collect. They arrived with cloaks of starlight and egos the size of royal dining halls. The Conclave of Eldritch Preservation—an aggressively titled group of magic academics with too many vowels in their names—descended upon the grove with scrolls, sigils, and smugness. “We sensed a breach,” intoned a particularly sparkly wizard who smelled like patchouli and judgment. “A draconic resurgence. It is our sworn duty to protect and contain such phenomena.” Elira folded her arms. “Funny. Because Pip doesn’t seem like a phenomenon to me. More like a sassy, stubborn, pants-biting family member with an overdeveloped sense of justice and an underdeveloped understanding of doors.” Pip, hiding behind her legs, peeked out and burped up a fire-spark shaped like a middle finger. It hovered, wobbled, and winked out with a defiant pop. “He is dangerous,” the wizard snarled. “So is heartbreak,” Elira replied. “And you don’t see me locking that in a tower.” They weren’t interested in nuance. They brought binding chains, glowing cages, and a spell orb shaped like a smug pearl. Pip hissed when they approached, his wings flaring into delicate arcs of light. Elira stood between them, sword out, magic crackling up her arms like static betrayal. “I will not give him up,” she growled. “You will not survive this,” the lead wizard said. “You clearly haven’t seen me before coffee.” Then Pip exploded. Not literally. More like... metaphysically. One second, he was a slightly-too-round sparkle-lizard with a tendency to knock over soup pots. The next, he became light. Not glowing. Not shimmering. Full-on, celestial, punch-you-in-the-eyes light. The grove pulsed. Leaves lifted in slow-motion spirals. The trees bent in reverence. Even the smug wizards backed the hell up as Pip—now floating three feet off the ground with his wings made of starlight fractals and his eyes aglow with a thousand firefly dawns—spoke. “I am not yours to collect,” he said. “I was born of flame and choice. She chose me.” “She is unqualified,” a mage blurted, clutching his scroll like a security blanket. “She fed me when I was too small to bite. She loved me when I was inconvenient. She stayed. That makes her everything.” Elira, for once in her entire life, was speechless. Pip landed softly beside her and nudged her shin with his now-radiantly adorable snout. “Elriya mine. I bite those who try to change that.” “Damn right,” she whispered, eyes wet. “You brilliant, flaming little emotional grenade.” The Conclave left. Whether by fear, awe, or simple exhaustion from being out-sassed by a dragon the size of a decorative pillow, they retreated with a promise to “monitor from afar” and “file an incident report.” Pip peed on their sigil stone for good measure. In the weeks that followed, something inside Elira changed. Not in the sparkly, Disney-montage way. She still cursed too much, had zero patience, and over-salted her stew. But she was... open. Softer in strange places. Sometimes she caught herself humming when Pip slept on her chest. Sometimes she didn’t flinch when people got too close. And Pip grew. Slowly, but surely. Wings stronger. Spines sharper. Vocabulary increasingly weird. “You are best friend,” he told her one night under a sky littered with moons. “And noodle mind. But heart-massive.” “Thanks?” He licked her nose. “I stay. Always. Even when old. Even when fire big. Even when you scream at soup for not being soup enough.” She buried her face in his side and laughed until she sobbed. Because he meant it. Because somehow, in a world that tried so hard to be cold, she’d found something incandescent. Not perfect. Not polished. Just... pure. And in the heart of the grove, surrounded by blossoms and moonbeams and an emotionally unstable dragon who would maul anyone who disrespected her boots, Elira finally allowed herself to believe: Love, real love—the bratty, explosive, thunder-cheese kind—might just be the oldest kind of magic.     Bring Pip Home: If this spark-scaled mischief-maker stole your heart too, you're not alone. You can keep a piece of "A Glimmer in the Grove" close—whether it’s by adding a touch of magic to your walls or sending someone a dragon-blessed greeting. Explore the acrylic print for a brilliant, glass-like display of our sassy hatchling, or choose a framed print to elevate your space with fantasy and warmth. For a touch of whimsy in everyday life, there's a greeting card perfect for dragon-loving friends—or even a bath towel that makes post-shower snuggles feel a little more legendary. Pip insists he looks best in high-resolution.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Echoes in Bark and Bone

The Tree That Dreamed of Flesh Long before the sky was called the sky, before even names had names, there stood a tree upon the spine of the world. Its roots burrowed into the bones of the mountains and drank from aquifers of memory. No one planted it. No one dared cut it. It was older than the seasons and wiser than the moon, and it dreamt in slow circles, age by age, century by century. One day — or perhaps it was a thousand years stitched into the shape of a moment — the tree dreamed of becoming a woman. Not just any woman, but one who remembered what the earth forgot. She would wear bark like skin, breathe wind like prayer, and carry the rustle of autumn in her voice. And so the dream unfurled into waking. She emerged from the trunk like mist from moss, her face carved from the wood itself, her hair woven from silvered root-fibers and sky-strands. She did not walk — she creaked. With every motion, her joints echoed with old wisdoms: the groan of shifting tectonics, the sigh of forgotten rain. She called herself no name, but the ravens took to calling her Myah’tah — the Woman Between Rings — and so that was what she became. The people, the few who dared to remain near the mountain spine, knew her as a story told in ash and fire. Children left offerings at her trails: feathers dipped in ochre, tiny flutes made of bone, strands of hair tied to pine needles. Not in fear — but reverence. For she was said to walk into the dreams of the dying and whisper what lies on the other side, leaving the scent of cedar and the taste of soil on the tongue of the awakened. One winter, a time when the wind gnawed like hunger and even the stars seemed brittle with cold, she was seen weeping beneath the oldest maple. Not loud. Not broken. Just a single tear that soaked into the frozen earth. That spring, a grove of fire-colored trees erupted from the spot — as if grief could be made beautiful. And from then on, whenever someone passed from the village, a new tree would grow in that grove, each with a bark that bore a faint imprint of a face. Quiet reminders that no soul ever truly vanished — only changed shape, and sang differently. But the mountain remembers everything. And mountains grow jealous of those who carry stories deeper than their stone hearts. As the world below became louder and greedier, the Woman Between Rings began to crack. Splinters appeared in her thoughts. The trees above her crown began to argue among themselves in the voice of dry leaves and snapping twigs. Something was unraveling, and the earth trembled in its knowing. And so it was that the legend of Myah’tah, the tree that dreamed of flesh, began to take root in the hearts of those willing to listen — before she would be forced to choose: remain and rot... or journey into the deepest grove, where even memory cannot follow. The Grove Where Memory Ends The path to the Grove Where Memory Ends was not marked on any map, nor did it welcome travelers who walked in flesh alone. It was a place that recoiled from language, where names turned to wind and footsteps vanished into moss. Only those who had nothing left to forget — or everything left to remember — could find it. And even then, the grove had to want you. Myah’tah’s feet cracked the earth with each step as she walked. Roots recoiled, unsure whether to yield to her or embrace her. She had been part-tree, part-woman, part-myth for so long that even the crows grew quiet as she passed beneath the bleeding canopy of autumn fire. Leaves rained in spirals, whispering in a tongue older than stone. The mountain watched, but dared not speak. It had lost its dominion over her. The stories she carried were too deep now — buried in her marrow like old seeds waiting to bloom in bone. By twilight, the grove found her. Not in welcome, but recognition. It had been waiting. The Grove Where Memory Ends was not a single place but a convergence: of forgotten dreams, unborn futures, and everything the world had tried to silence. Trees twisted in slow agony, bark splitting to reveal glimpses of lost souls—eyes peering from rings of age, mouths stretched open in silent song. Time did not pass here; it paused to listen. At the heart of the grove stood the Memory Tree, blackened with sorrow but vibrant with an eerie luminescence that pulsed like a heartbeat. Its trunk was etched with the glyphs of a thousand languages, none spoken aloud in centuries. And at its base was a hollow, gaping like a mouth awaiting confession. Myah’tah did not hesitate. She removed the feathers from her hair, untied the sinew cords that bound her braids, and laid them before the hollow like relics. Each feather whispered as it touched the soil, telling a story of a child once comforted, a village once warned, a death once honored. They were more than decorations. They were her memories, woven in ritual and rain. She stepped forward. The bark of her legs cracked, flaked, and fell away in dark spirals. Her skin no longer obeyed the form of a woman; it stretched and rippled like sap boiling beneath the surface. Her fingers grew long and rootlike. Her mouth receded. And when she touched the hollow with what remained of her hand, the grove exhaled. All at once, she saw it — not with eyes, but with the marrow of what she had been: The first fire, lit by trembling hands in a cave painted with blood and ochre, watched over by a woman who sang to the smoke so it would rise straight. The wailing of mothers whose sons were lost in battle, their laments turned into wind that now howled through the canyons at night. The ceremony where a child was turned away for hearing the trees speak too clearly — and the silent rage that grew into wildflowers at her feet. And a time that never happened — where no forest burned, no tribe scattered, no names were stolen — a world preserved in a single breath held between the beats of her bark-carved chest. Myah’tah wept. But her tears were not water. They were amber — fossilized moments she had carried longer than she knew. One by one, they fell and sank into the roots of the Memory Tree. And as they were absorbed, the tree began to change. Slowly, agonizingly, it twisted and thickened, cracking open like a chrysalis. From its center emerged a sapling — young, pulsing, tender — but bearing Myah’tah’s eyes. She stepped back — or tried to. But her legs had rooted. Her voice was now only wind. Her hands stretched toward the sky and split into branches. And then, stillness. The Woman Between Rings was no longer a woman. She had become the story itself. Seasons passed. People returned to the mountain. They built altars. They carved totems. They came not to worship — but to remember. Children with second sight swore the leaves on her branches whispered dreams in their sleep. Lovers came to ask the tree if their bond would last, and the leaves would either tremble or fall. No one cut the tree. No one even touched it. They simply sat, breathed, and listened. Because now, the tree held every story the mountain tried to erase. Every name that was renamed. Every woman who refused to be quiet. Every soul who chose memory over survival. And on rare nights — those whispering-edge-of-autumn nights when the moon bled red — an old voice would rise from the leaves, half bark, half breath, and ask a question that would lodge in the listener’s chest for the rest of their life: “Will you remember… or will you vanish?” The Voice That Grew From Ash Time lost its grip in the grove. The people who came did not age while near the tree, or perhaps they did in ways that didn’t show on their skin. Children returned home with silver streaks in their hair and dreams too large for language. Elders who had long forgotten their own names would sit beneath Myah’tah’s branches and, with trembling fingers, recall lullabies from lifetimes ago. No one knew how long she had stood rooted — a century, perhaps more. But she was no longer called a legend. She was simply called the Tree-Who-Knows. Then came the fires. They didn’t start in the mountains. They started in the veins of men. Men in steel machines who spoke in graphs and numbers and progress. Men who looked at the land and saw contracts instead of stories. They came not to pray, but to pave. Not to listen, but to map. The groves were “untapped.” The earth was “underutilized.” Even the bones of the mountains were “mineral-rich.” And so, the digging began. It started with trees falling outside the sacred perimeter — “just to make room,” they said. But the grove shuddered. Birds vanished. The soil turned to silence. Then they came for the trees near the Memory Grove itself. Old-growth forests, gnarled with age and soul, were flattened in weeks. But they could not touch the Tree-Who-Knows. Not yet. It was the one anomaly — marked on their maps as “unremovable.” Chainsaws dulled. Bulldozers stalled. Drones malfunctioned overhead. Still, they persisted. One day, a new crew was brought in. One without belief, without reverence, and armed with fire. The first flame licked the edge of the Grove Where Memory Ends at dusk. By midnight, the sky itself seemed to scream. And that was when the voice returned. It did not come from Myah’tah’s branches, nor from the hollow beneath her roots. It came from the sapling that had once grown from her sorrow — now a towering second tree, standing close, too close, too proud for its years. It had been quiet until then, a witness. But as flames encroached and smoke coiled through the canopy, it shuddered — and spoke. The voice was not a sound, but a pressure. A thrum in the bone. A knowing in the gut. It called to the dreamers, to the sensitive, to the mad and the mothers. And they came. From nearby villages and far-off cities, from reservations and forests and places so lost to time that they were only remembered in breath, they came. Not as an army — but as a memory. They brought water and song, ash and offerings. They formed a ring around the grove and did not speak. Instead, they hummed. A hum older than language. A vibration that stirred the ground and made even the machines hesitate. And in the middle of that hum, Myah’tah awakened. Her bark split — not in pain, but in rebirth. From her trunk flowed sap like blood, amber-rich and thick with symbols. Her branches rose higher than before, splitting clouds. Her face reformed — the same as it once was, but now illuminated from within, as if firelight and moonlight had made love in her core. She was no longer bound by the laws of nature or story. She was legend manifest — memory given form. She was not just the Tree-Who-Knows. She was the Tree-Who-Remembers-Everything. And with her awakening came change. The fires halted — not by rain, but by will. Flames curled backward, smoke bent away. The men in machines felt their hearts seize — not from fear, but recognition. Each one saw, just for a second, the face of someone they had lost: a grandmother, a sister, a lover, a self. And they turned away, unable to face what they had tried to erase. In the days that followed, the mountain grew again. Not in size, but in soul. Trees once fallen re-rooted themselves. Flowers bloomed in colors no eye had seen in centuries. Animals returned — even the ones spoken of only in legend. The grove became a pilgrimage site, not for religion, but for remembering. Artists, healers, warriors, and wanderers all came to sit, not at the foot of Myah’tah, but among her roots — for she now stretched across miles. Her branches braided with other trees, whispering through entire ecosystems. And the sapling — now a tree of its own — had birthed a seed. A child was born beneath the canopy during the first spring after the fire. A girl, quiet as dusk, with bark along her back and silver in her hair. Her eyes held galaxies, and when she laughed, the birds followed her voice. She did not speak until the age of five, when she placed her hand on the Tree-Who-Remembers and whispered: “I remember being you.” She would go on to plant forests with her footsteps, to restore languages with her breath, and to teach the world that memory was not a thing kept in books — but in bark, in bone, in breath. Her name was never given. Like Myah’tah, she became a story, not a statue. A feeling, not a figure. And though her flesh was young, her soul was old — old as the first fire. Old as the dream of a tree who once longed to become a woman. And thus, the circle closed. Not in silence. But in song. A song that echoes still — in forests, in whispers, in the lines of your own palm — if you dare to listen. Because some legends do not end. They grow.     Bring the legend home. If the story of Echoes in Bark and Bone stirred something ancient in you — if it whispered truths you’ve always known but never spoken — you can carry that spirit into your own space. This evocative artwork is available as a Canvas Print for sacred walls, a Wood Print etched in natural grain, a Fleece Blanket for dream-wrapped nights, or a woven Tapestry that hums softly with ancestral echoes. Each piece is more than decor — it’s a portal. A branch in your own home that leads back to the grove, to memory, to her. Let it root in your space, and listen closely. The tree still speaks.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Heaven's Apex Predator

The Silence Before the Storm There were no birds in the sky. No insects sang in the dunes. No wind to stir the silence. Only heat—searing, smothering, ancient—and the occasional hiss of sand sliding against stone. Travelers had long since stopped crossing the Valley of Halem. Maps showed it, yes, but only as a blank patch, its name scrawled in fading ink and surrounded by whispered tales. The elders called it “The Scar.” Merchants called it cursed. And the wise? They simply avoided it altogether. But tonight, silence shattered. It began with a low, guttural sound—part roar, part celestial tremor. Then came the thudding, rhythmic and primal. Pawbeats, enormous ones. The sand rippled with every step, casting tremors outward like shockwaves through water. And from the dunes, she emerged. At first glance, the creature could be mistaken for a hallucination born of heatstroke: a Bengal tiger, vast and muscled, striped in flame and shadow. But it was the wings that undid reality. They stretched impossibly wide from her shoulders, feathers dipped in ash, tinged with crimson at the tips like burnt offerings. When she moved, they shimmered as though cut from the edge of a dying star. This was not nature’s work. This was something... forgotten. Buried in myth. Worshipped—and feared. Her name was whispered by the few who dared: Atharai. She was not born of the wild. Nor was she created by the divine. Atharai was the wrath of both. A relic from the forgotten wars between gods and beasts. A judge of the wicked. An executioner of the arrogant. And tonight, her silence was broken for the first time in over a thousand years. At the edge of the salt-washed cliffs, a lone figure stood watching her descent—a tall man cloaked in indigo silk, dust coating his boots. His face was mostly shadow beneath a hood, but his stance was too relaxed for fear. In his left hand, he held a staff carved from a blackened rib bone. In his right, a faded medallion etched with the symbol of a broken wing. He had come to summon her. “She remembers me,” he whispered. “Or she will.” The tiger’s roar split the sky, and the clouds above bled red light like torn parchment. Atharai spread her wings wide and launched herself into the air, sand exploding beneath her like the aftermath of a god’s fury. She didn’t hunt for food. She hunted for memory. For vengeance. And she had just caught a scent. Somewhere far to the north, where the wind still whispered and people still laughed around fire pits, a hidden sect stirred. Their scribes watched the storm in the southern sky and began lighting candles not for protection, but apology. But they were far too late. Because the heavens’ apex predator had awoken. Blood in the Sky The old stories had warned them. They were etched into canyon walls, whispered in forbidden tongues, sung by widows in cracked voices over bone flutes. “When the wings of flame return,” the songs said, “the unrepentant will burn beneath them.” But centuries dull even the sharpest truth, and the people of the North had forgotten the feeling of prey trembling beneath the gaze of a sky predator. Until now. Northward she flew, faster than any storm, wings slicing through the stratosphere. Her shadow painted rivers black and cracked glass in mountain temples. The air screamed in her wake. Animals fled from their dens, and crops withered as she passed—not from malice, but from proximity to something that did not belong to this world. Atharai wasn’t evil. She was balance. Brutal, primal, absolute. Below her, in a monastery carved into the face of a black cliff, the Hierophants of the Unfeathered Order assembled in tight circles, clutching glyphs to their chest and chanting the old refrains. They’d once made a pact—long forgotten by the masses but etched into the veins of every initiate. Their ancestors had taken her wings. Not entirely. Just one. A symbolic act of dominance. A mistake. What they hadn’t realized was that she let them. Atharai had never truly slept. Not fully. Her body slumbered beneath the sands, her feathers rotting into relics scattered in private vaults and royal chambers. But her mind—her rage—remained tethered to the old wound, pulsing in the ruins beneath Halem like a second heartbeat. She remembered the betrayal. She remembered the man with the obsidian staff who led the ritual. The one whose descendants now chanted above stone altars as if they were safe behind prayer. But Atharai didn’t believe in prayers. Back in the high northern cliffs, in a place known as Rymek’s Spine, the wind shifted violently. Three acolytes stood outside the Temple of Flame's End, tasked with watching the skies. Their faces turned upward in curiosity, then horror. One tried to run. One dropped to his knees. The third merely stared as the clouds ruptured and a figure streaked from the heavens like a comet dipped in terror. Atharai didn’t descend gently. She landed like a reckoning. The stone plaza cracked beneath her, sending fissures racing toward the temple. Her wings folded with the slow grace of vengeance incarnate. The three acolytes never screamed. There was no time. One swipe—three bodies. No blood, no carnage. Just... silence again. She hated the sound of fear. It reeked of weakness, and she had no room for it in her purge. Inside the temple, alarm bells rang as Initiate-Captains scrambled to arm the defenses: fire-dancers, glass-bow archers, the elite Bonecallers. One by one, they took position. The grand hall echoed with footfalls and fire chants. And still, the High Priest hadn't risen from his slumber. His chamber was sealed, locked behind five blood-signed wards. No one dared disturb him—until the black staff tapped three times on his door. The hooded man had returned. The one who’d summoned her. The one who should’ve been dead generations ago. “She is here,” he said, quietly, placing the medallion on the floor. “And she remembers.” The old priest didn’t speak. His eyes, rheumy with time, fell on the sigil and widened. His body moved slowly, reverently, as he reached beneath his bed and drew out a feather. It was scorched and nearly crumbled at the touch, but still pulsed faintly—alive. Not a relic. A bond. “You’re one of them,” the priest croaked, voice heavy with betrayal. “But... that bloodline was severed.” The man gave a tight smile. “Not severed. Hidden. She found me. She knows what must be done.” Outside, the first wave of defenders engaged Atharai. They didn't last long. Glass arrows bounced off her fur like raindrops on steel. Flame-dancers conjured infernos that she absorbed into her feathers with a roar that made the earth quake. And when the Bonecallers chanted their names of power—summoning beasts from shadow realms—Atharai simply opened her mouth and unleashed a roar imbued with ancient syllables that unmade spells mid-air. One of the Bonecallers turned to stone. Another turned to ash. The third simply vanished, leaving only his robes behind. She moved like a storm given spine. Every step cracked marble. Every wingbeat summoned a whirlwind. And at the eye of this unholy hurricane, Atharai’s face remained calm. Focused. She wasn’t here to massacre. She was here to deliver justice. Every name etched into her bones would be called. Every descendant marked by that ancient betrayal would face her judgment. No excuses. No forgiveness. In the priest’s chamber, the man knelt and whispered something into the feather. It glowed once—softly—then flared with impossible light. The priest gasped, clutching his chest, but it was too late. The old bond was remade. The feather cracked and dissolved into ash that drifted upward, seeking its mistress. And far below the northern ridge, Atharai paused mid-step. Her head tilted. Her wings lifted slowly, catching that final whisper of truth. Someone had remembered her—not just feared her, not worshipped her, but truly remembered. The pact wasn’t just betrayal. It was sacrifice. Pain. Love. Her eyes narrowed. Somewhere deep within her, a memory not of fury, but of something older, flickered once—and was gone. But it was enough to change the course of the sky. With a roar that cracked the heavens, Atharai turned from the blood-soaked temple and launched into the wind. Northward again. Beyond the spires. Beyond the ridge. Toward the Black Fortress. Toward the man who had carried her whisper. Toward something worse than vengeance. Toward the truth. The Pact of Ash and Flame The Black Fortress had no windows. No balconies. No courtyards. It had no need for sky. It was built by the descendants of the Betrayers to keep the air out—to lock the heavens away. And yet now, every corridor, every stairwell, every vaulted chamber trembled beneath a rhythm they could not ignore. Wings. The guards had barricaded the lower halls. Layers of steel, sorcery, and blessed stone reinforced every passage. In the upper chamber, seated on a throne of fused bone and obsidian, sat Veyrn the Quiet—last of the true-blooded line of the First Severance. His skin was pale and stretched, as though time had tried and failed to decay him. His voice was never raised, his hands never stained. He commanded through silence, through fear, through inherited legacy. To his people, he was sacred. To Atharai, he was a beacon. She came down from the sky like a god denied, splitting the fortress’s spire in two with a single dive. Rubble exploded outward. The wards flared, sputtered, and died. The guards below, brave in armor but soft in soul, lasted less than a breath. She didn't even strike them—just landed. The force alone killed them. And then, she walked. Each step burned her clawmarks into the black stone. Her wings dragged sparks. Her eyes no longer burned with rage—they burned with focus, with unrelenting memory. At the end of the hall, the man with the staff stood waiting again, hood thrown back, revealing a face that shimmered with both age and youth. Lines carved by time, but eyes that remembered the stars from before they had names. “You came,” he said simply. She didn’t answer. Tigers don’t answer. Gods don’t explain. Instead, she stopped. Close enough for the heat of her breath to melt frost from the walls. He stepped forward and held out the medallion. It was cracked now, humming with energy it had no right to contain. Inside it: the pact. The original contract. The betrayal, bound in bone and sealed in blood and fire. He did not hand it to her. He crushed it in his palm. “I was wrong,” he said. “We all were.” Behind them, the doors to the throne room opened—slow, defiant. Inside, Veyrn stood from his throne. He wore no armor. No crown. Just robes of black silk and a blade across his back that had never drawn blood. He looked at Atharai not with fear, but with knowing. As if this moment had stalked him since birth. As if, on some level, he welcomed it. “She’ll kill you,” said the man with the staff, his voice low. Veyrn gave a thin smile. “She has already killed me. I’ve simply been dying slowly ever since.” Atharai moved forward, each step measured like the toll of a war drum. Her gaze did not waver. Her wings flared wide, casting massive shadows against the chamber walls. Veyrn reached back and slowly drew the blade—a long, thin relic etched with the names of the original Betrayers. As he did, the markings began to glow. They did not light in defense. They lit in recognition. “Then come, Tiger of Heaven,” he said softly. “Let it end.” The battle that followed would never be written. There were no witnesses. No scribes. Only the crack of steel on claw, the roar of the wind through shattered stone, and the scream of a soul unraveling under the weight of ancestral debt. Veyrn fought not like a warrior, but like a man resigned. He didn’t try to win. He tried to be worthy of his end. When it was over, he lay broken beneath the bones of his own throne. His blade embedded in the ground beside him, scorched black. Atharai stood over him, panting—not from exhaustion, but restraint. Her chest heaved. Blood matted her fur. One wing hung low, torn at the edge. She could have finished him with a blink. But instead, she spoke. Not with words. With memory. A flood of images and voices and blood and ash and feathers and fire—all channeled into Veyrn’s mind as she lowered her head. He saw it all. The theft of her wing. The lies told to justify it. The temples built on her pain. And beneath it all... the forgotten truth: She was never meant to be hunted. She was meant to guide. The pact had not been an imprisonment—it had been a covenant. A balance between power and protection. Between sky and soil. The Betrayers had twisted it for their own glory. Veyrn wept. Not for himself. For what his line had cost the world. “I can’t fix it,” he whispered. Her answer was final: You won’t. She turned, walking slowly through the wreckage. The man with the staff followed. He was silent now, reverent. The wind swirled around them, lifting ash into a dance. From the sky above, streaks of red light fell like dying comets—her feathers returning. Every one of them carried names, histories, memories. She would wear them all. As she spread her wings to take flight, the man asked one last question: “Will you hunt again?” Atharai paused. Then tilted her head back, eyes on the stars. Only if they forget. With a final beat of her wings, she soared into the heavens—not as a monster, not as a goddess—but as a warning. A myth reborn in flame and truth. And far below, where the fires of the Black Fortress still smoldered, the world began to remember her name. Atharai. Heaven’s Apex Predator. Winged Judge of Flame. She was no longer hunting vengeance. Now... she hunted balance.     Bring Atharai’s legend to life in your own space. Whether you were captivated by her searing vengeance, divine wings, or the storm she left behind, you can now own a piece of this mythic journey. Explore our hand-selected merchandise featuring Heaven’s Apex Predator in stunning detail: Wall Tapestry – Let Atharai stretch her wings across your walls in commanding fashion. Acrylic Print – Vivid, glassy textures give her celestial fury an ultra-realistic finish. Framed Art Print – A gallery-worthy display of mythic justice and flame-winged intensity. Carry-All Pouch – Unleash a bit of divine wildness into your everyday essentials. Greeting Card – Send a message that roars with mystery and meaning. Every item is crafted with rich color and fine detail, perfect for fantasy lovers, art collectors, and seekers of the fierce and untamed. Claim your relic of the skyborn judge today.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Whispers of the Luminara Bloom

It started, as all ridiculous forest tales do, with a flutter, a sparkle, and someone complaining about pollen. “I swear to every sap-sticky deity in this woods, if one more cherry blossom gets in my beak, I’m burning down spring.” The bird in question, of course, was not your average robin or titmouse (though let’s be honest, titmice are already a bit extra). No, this was a creature of scandalous magnificence—twelve tail feathers of iridescent absurdity, each curling like a salon blowout in a shampoo commercial. She was known in local whispers as Velverina of the Bloom, and she hated being whispered about almost as much as she hated being photographed before her feathers had settled. Which is to say: she hated everything about living in a magical forest. Every year, when the sun returned with its golden glow and the cherry trees released their petal-dust clouds of romance and allergic reactions, the forest would buzz with gossip: “Will she sing this year?” “Did she finally kill that squirrel who called her a pigeon?” “Is she dating the glowbug prince again?” To all of this, Velverina rolled her eyes (which sparkled like black diamonds) and sighed the sigh of a woman who had seen too many mating dances and not enough good lattes. But this spring was different. For starters, the mossy branch she always used as her personal chaise lounge had been overrun by a group of juvenile frogs who had declared it “Frogtopia” and were now holding drum circles every morning at dawn. Secondly, the golden lights that gave her feathers their ethereal shimmer had been acting up—flickering like a broken disco ball at a fae rave. And finally, and perhaps most annoyingly, a new creature had arrived in the forest. He called himself Jasper, wore a waistcoat made of dew-drenched fern, and claimed to be a “wandering bard and emotional support hedgehog.” “You look like a peacock exploded during a glitter sale,” he said the first time he saw her. Velverina blinked slowly, her tail curling protectively around her like a feathered force field. “And you look like a bad idea wrapped in moss, dear.” It was love at first insult. Well, not love exactly. More like... tolerated bemusement. And in a forest full of overly affectionate dryads and aggressively matchmaking squirrels, that was as close to passion as it got. The gossip vines (yes, actual vines who spread rumors via pollen bursts) began swirling the news. Jasper had made it his mission to “unlock Velverina’s song”—the mythical melody she had allegedly sung a hundred springs ago that caused the cherry trees to bloom in full synchronized ecstasy. She insisted it was just a nasty case of spring allergies and someone with a lute who misunderstood a sneeze, but the legend had stuck. And so, under boughs of dripping moss and beside blossoms too pink to be taken seriously, Jasper and Velverina began their reluctant courtship. It involved poetry (bad), interpretive dance (worse), and stolen moments of sarcasm under the starlight. But somewhere between a pollen brawl with the frogs and Jasper’s attempt to woo her with a lute solo that sounded like a squirrel in a blender, Velverina’s tail began to sparkle just a little brighter. And somewhere deep in the forest, something ancient stirred. “Oh no,” Velverina muttered. “The prophecy’s trying to happen again.” The Blossoming Ridiculosity Velverina woke the next morning to a flurry of suspiciously coordinated flower petals spiraling through the air like overzealous backup dancers. A tulip landed squarely on her beak. She bit it in half and spat it onto a passing ant. The ant saluted. “This again?” she muttered, tail feathers puffing into defensive spirals. “The forest is clearly trying to set the mood. I hate it when nature meddles.” “Ah, but meddling is the forest’s love language,” purred a voice from below. It was Jasper, seated under her branch with a mug of dandelion espresso and wearing a leafy cravat so flamboyant it probably had its own moon cycle. “Also, I brought coffee. You strike me as someone who loathes mornings and believes brunch is a human conspiracy.” Velverina blinked down at him. The coffee was steaming, the sun was rising like it had something to prove, and the frogs were croaking “Bohemian Rhapsody” in three-part harmony. She hated how well he was starting to know her. “Don’t you have a lute to break or a squirrel to offend?” “Both are scheduled for later. For now, I thought we might chat. About your song.” She flared one tail feather lazily. “Again with the song? Jasper, darling, if I had a coin for every bard who came sniffing around looking for my ‘mythic melody,’ I could afford a silk hammock and a full-time peacock to fan me.” “You already have twelve tail feathers that function as a personal entourage.” “True. But they’re unionized now and they only swish on Tuesdays.” Jasper gave her the look of a man who was either about to compose a sonnet or burn down a gazebo for love. She couldn’t decide which and frankly didn’t want to know. That was the trouble with bards. Too many feelings. Not enough realism. But later that afternoon, as the dew warmed to golden mist and pollen sparkled like fairy glitter in the sun, Velverina found herself humming. Not on purpose, obviously. It was more of a nasal protest buzz. Still, it had rhythm. And unfortunately, the trees heard it. The cherry blossoms gasped. The gossip vines quivered. Somewhere, a unicorn sneezed so hard it did a backflip. “It’s happening!” a daffodil shrieked before fainting dramatically into a puddle. Within hours, the entire forest had transformed into what could only be described as an unsolicited romantic flash mob. Butterflies lined up in choreographed formations. Bees started braiding petals into crowns. Someone—probably the glowbug prince—had rigged up mood lighting and ambient harp sounds. “Make it stop,” Velverina whispered, half-horrified, half-flattered. “This is a nightmare wrapped in florals.” “I think it’s rather charming,” said Jasper, lounging on a moss pouf that hadn’t existed two seconds ago. “Though I’m fairly sure that acorn just winked at me.” “That’s Gary. He’s a creep.” But the true chaos was yet to come. Because someone had summoned the Elders. Not ancient wise owls. Not mystical deer. No, the Elders were three retired dryads with passive-aggressive energy and wildly inappropriate tea parties. Their names were Frondalina, Barksy, and Myrtle, and they hadn’t agreed on anything in four centuries except their shared disappointment in everything younger than them. “You haven’t sung in over a hundred years,” snapped Frondalina, adjusting her moss wig. “I don’t sing on command. I’m not a bard’s jukebox,” Velverina replied, crossing her wings with maximum sass. Barksy tapped her walking stick made of centuries-old sassafras. “The Bloom is wilting. The prophecy needs renewing. The Song must rise.” “What prophecy?” Jasper asked, sitting up like a hedgehog who’d accidentally joined a cult. “Oh, just some ancient nonsense about how the song of the Bloombringer”—here they all gestured vaguely at Velverina—“is the only thing that can rejuvenate the cycle of spring, balance the pollen tides, and prevent the squirrels from overthrowing the seasonal order.” “So... totally normal, then.” “Oh yes. And also, if she doesn’t sing, the moon might fall into a ditch. We’re fuzzy on that part.” Velverina squawked. “This is exactly why I stopped singing. Every time I hit a high note, someone grows a sentient cabbage or starts worshipping a toad. It’s too much pressure.” “Then don’t sing for the prophecy,” Jasper said quietly, approaching with the kind of gaze that could melt icicles and blush roses. “Sing because you want to. Sing because... maybe I’m worth a note.” Her feathers glowed a deep pink, as if mortified by their own sentimentality. “Don’t make this romantic. I hate romantic.” “You do not. You just hate being seen.” That silenced her. Not because he was wrong, but because he wasn’t supposed to know that. And before she could hurl an insult or a petal or an emergency pine cone, a wind swept through the forest. The kind of wind that means magic’s about to get weird. All eyes turned to her. The squirrels stood on two legs. The bees harmonized. The trees leaned in. “Oh damn it all,” Velverina muttered. “Fine. But if a tree grows legs again, I’m moving to the coast.” She opened her beak. And the first note curled into the air like the scent of a thousand blossoms waking up all at once. It was not sweet. It was not gentle. It was not some dainty lullaby for woodland folk to clutch their pearls over. It was... pure Velverina. Sassy. Bold. A little rude. Like jazz, if jazz had hips and a vendetta. It made the frogs faint, the mushrooms dance, and somewhere a mole proposed marriage to a daffodil. Jasper just stared, slack-jawed, as the song reached its peak—and the entire forest bloomed in a single, thunderous burst of petals, light, and unrepentant fabulousness. She finished, tucked a tail feather back into place, and looked directly at him. “You owe me coffee for life.” “Done,” he breathed. “And possibly a temple.” But before she could roll her eyes or dramatically swoon (she was still deciding which), a faint rumble echoed through the trees. “What now?” she sighed. “Don’t tell me I woke up something else.” The Elders stared into the trees. The squirrels dove for cover. And from the depths of the grove, something enormous—glittery, floral, and just a tad vindictive—was beginning to rise. Jasper turned pale. “Oh no.” Velverina’s tail curled tighter. “Please tell me that’s not what I think it is.” “I think,” Frondalina whispered, “you just reawakened the Bloom Titan.” Velverina slapped her wing to her forehead. “I hate spring.” Rise of the Bloom Titan There are certain things in life no one prepares you for. Like finding out your song just resurrected an ancient floral demigod the size of a cottage. Or discovering your potential soulmate owns three hundred tiny hats and wears them based on emotional state. Or facing the end of spring via a thirty-foot rage-blossom with hydrangea fists and a carnation crown of doom. Velverina had faced many challenges: drunk fireflies, jealous peacocks, an attempted coup by a trio of nihilist badgers. But this? This was new. The Bloom Titan had fully risen. It stood on two tangled root-legs, vines spiraling from its arms like whips, its face a blooming medley of rose and hibiscus with one unsettling tulip for a nose. Each step it took caused a burst of spores and dramatic musical stings—like a soap opera made entirely of pollen and existential dread. “IT IS SPRINGTIME,” it boomed, voice like thunder and breath like over-fertilized compost. “AND I AM AWAKENED!” “Well that’s just peachy,” Velverina muttered. “Anyone got a net, a garden hose, or a napalm sprinkler system?” “I have a kazoo,” Jasper offered, holding it up meekly. “It’s in B minor?” “Of course it is.” The Bloom Titan stomped forward. Birds fled. Flowers wilted in reverence. Somewhere, a possum fainted with flair. “You must complete the Song!” Myrtle cried, holding her teacup like a weapon. “It’s the only thing that’ll calm the Titan!” “The last time I finished that song, three clouds got pregnant and a maple tree ascended into sainthood,” Velverina snapped. “That song is not a toy!” “What if I accompany you?” Jasper asked softly. “Balance it out. You sing fire, I play foolery. Yin, yang. Feather, fur.” Velverina stared at him. He looked ridiculous. His cravat was on sideways, he had moss in his beard, and he was holding that kazoo like it might summon a miracle. And damn it, she kind of adored him for it. “Fine,” she said. “But if this turns into a forest-wide musical, I’m hexing everyone’s eyebrows.” With a dramatic hop (because of course), she flew into the air, tail spiraling like a firework of glam rock dreams. Jasper scuttled up a mushroom to his full height, kazoo poised like a flute in a Renaissance painting painted by a squirrel on mushrooms. The Titan raised its arms. “I HUNGER FOR—” Note one: piercing, pink, unapologetic. The air shifted. Petals froze mid-fall. Even the drama-crickets stopped fiddling. Jasper joined in with a kazoo note so spectacularly off-key it looped back into being charming. Velverina’s feathers shimmered like starlight on strawberry jam. She poured her soul into the melody—sass and sorrow, glitter and gloom. It wasn’t beautiful. It was honest. The Titan paused. Its vine-fists curled. The tulip-nose twitched. Then… It sniffled. A single daisy rolled down its cheek. “That… that was the most sincere seasonal expression I’ve ever heard.” Velverina blinked. “Did we just serenade a kaiju into emotional vulnerability?” “Apparently,” Jasper whispered. “I think he’s about to cry again.” The Bloom Titan knelt. “I have been angry for centuries… No one ever sang for me. Only at me.” “We all feel unappreciated sometimes,” Velverina said, now thoroughly done with this nonsense. “I cope with sarcasm and expensive tail oil. You went full Godzilla.” The Titan sniffed again. “Would you… hug me?” “Absolutely not.” “Reasonable.” It slowly curled itself into a giant flower-petal cocoon and, with a yawn that could mulch a bush, promptly went back to sleep. A final swirl of pollen shot skyward like confetti from the universe’s most dramatic cannon. The forest was silent. Then, applause. Wild, weird applause. Mushrooms clapping with caps. Vines waving like concert fans. A squirrel fainted again. Even the grumpy frogs were croaking in harmony. Jasper lowered his kazoo. “We did it.” Velverina landed, feathers still shimmering with residual drama. “I saved spring. Again. And I didn’t even get a croissant.” “I could be your croissant.” She blinked. “Was that a pick-up line or are you having a sugar crash?” “Little of both.” Velverina snorted. “You’re ridiculous.” “And yet.” They stood there, surrounded by glowing flowers, blushing trees, and a sense that maybe, just maybe, spring was safe again—if only because no one wanted to risk waking that Titan twice. “You know,” Jasper said, “you’re kind of amazing.” She smirked, tail feathers fluffing. “Tell me something I don’t know.” And as the sun dipped below the treetops and the gossip vines released a final burst of perfume, Velverina leaned in close and whispered something scandalous in his ear. He blushed so hard his spikes turned pink. Somewhere deep in the trees, the Bloom Titan smiled in its sleep. Spring had returned—with sparkle, sass, and a tail full of trouble.     Bring Velverina Home: If you found yourself rooting for our glitter-tailed diva and her kazoo-slinging hedgehog companion, you can carry a bit of that springtime sass with you year-round. Adorn your walls with a lush tapestry that blooms brighter than the Bloom Titan himself, or add a dash of ethereal glam to your space with an acrylic print that practically sings. Feeling portable? Sling Velverina over your shoulder with our gorgeous tote bag, or let her glam up your gallery wall in a framed fine art print. After all, spring deserves a little drama—and Velverina delivers it in full bloom.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Ash and Bloom

The Barbecue Incident Every 500 years, the Phoenix of the Verdant Flame rises from the ashes to restore balance, inspire mortals, and—let's be honest—get attention. Not in the noble, “bless your crops and heal your wounds” kind of way. No. This Phoenix was a flaming, moss-covered diva with a lava-chiseled beak and opinions sharp enough to pop your emotional support bubble. Her name was Fernessa the Combustible, and on the morning of her latest resurrection, she was not having it. The usual dramatic emergence from a pyre? Cancelled. Too cliché. This time, she clawed her way out of a bonfire barbecue pit behind a craft mead brewery in Oregon, covered in singed brisket and unprocessed trauma. Her first words as she shook off the cinders and flammable coleslaw? “WHO THE HELL PUT KALE IN A POTATO SALAD?” People screamed. Not because of the fire-breathing resurrection bird—which, frankly, looked like a crossover between a volcano and an enchanted chia pet—but because Steve, the pitmaster, had just been roasted both figuratively and literally. Fernessa lit into him like a Yelp reviewer with a grudge, feathers blazing, tail smoldering in every direction like a Fourth of July fireworks accident sponsored by Mother Nature and the Ghost of Anthony Bourdain. But this was no ordinary tantrum. You see, when Fernessa rose, the world felt it. Trees whispered. Rivers reversed. A gnome in Idaho got a spontaneous mohawk. The Earth knew that an Elemental Balance had shifted—and she had plans. Big, mossy, inferno-chic plans. She wasn’t just here to yell at hipsters and burn questionable appetizers. She was here to fix the damn planet. One dramatic entrance at a time. Still smoldering, she stomped out of the backyard in a blaze of glittering steam and sarcasm, trailing smoke, moss spores, and the faint scent of charred gluten-free burger bun. As she passed through a compost pile, ferns burst into bloom behind her. Someone tried to get it on TikTok but their phone caught fire mid-upload. Nature, apparently, doesn’t do influencers. She flapped once. Leaves fluttered. Ash spiraled. The ground vibrated like a bass drop at a woodland rave. Fernessa took off into the skies—half dragon goddess, half salad bar on fire—with only one mission in mind: to reclaim the forgotten shrines, rekindle ancient roots, and possibly punch a fossil fuel executive right in the soul. It was time for the world to burn. And bloom. At the same time. Like a majestic, unbothered phoenix doing yoga in a volcano while shouting affirmations at your houseplants. Reforest, Rebirth, Repeat (With Extra Sass) Fernessa the Combustible had been airborne for three whole minutes before she realized: her left wing was shedding embers like a discount sparkler, her tail was caught on a hanging bird feeder from an RV park, and she was still trailing kale. Literal kale. Like the goddamn leaves had unionized and hitched a ride to glory. “Perfect,” she muttered, incinerating a drone that buzzed a little too close. “I’m reborn for ten minutes and already the surveillance state is up my cloaca.” She soared on, flames licking the sky, moss blooming across her belly in complex fractals, like someone let Bob Ross decorate a flamethrower. Below, forests perked up. Saplings whispered. A squirrel near Bend, Oregon, achieved enlightenment just by seeing her tail feathers and now runs a small mushroom cult. Her destination? The ruined Temple of the First Ember, now tragically converted into an AirBnB that specialized in goat yoga and “shamanic reiki.” The stone slabs still glowed faintly with ancient fire, but someone had installed fairy lights and called it a “Zen patio.” Fernessa landed in a flurry of ash and passive-aggressive menace, singeing a pile of artisanal bathrobes and causing three influencers to instantly poop their aura stones. “Listen up, hummus worshippers,” she bellowed, voice vibrating with molten clarity. “This sacred ground is CLOSED for spiritual renovation. Your chakras can find somewhere else to overcompensate.” One woman, who looked like a sentient kombucha ad, whispered, “Is she like, part of the immersive package?” Fernessa vaporized a healing crystal the size of a small dog. No one asked follow-ups. With a few wingbeats and some vigorous, slightly inappropriate tail-whipping, she cleared the area of beige people and driftwood mandalas. Alone once more, she spread her wings and began the ritual of ReRooting—calling forth every ember, spore, and whisper of memory stored in the earth’s crust. Roots curled toward her. Stone cracked. Fire roared. Somewhere deep beneath the temple, a forgotten tectonic plate burped with approval. She wasn’t just a phoenix, damn it. She was a systems reboot. She was the Control-Alt-Delete of eco-spiritual justice, the blazing middle finger to centuries of greenwashing and emotional vision boards. And she was only getting started. But the planet? Oh, she remembered Fernessa. Gaia was already sending her signs: wildfire foxes with glowing tails began appearing in national parks. Tulips bloomed in asphalt. An endangered snail in New Zealand laid an egg in the shape of a thumbs-up. Everything organic was acting weirder, more theatrical, like they knew Mom was home and she was done putting up with everyone’s capitalist bullcrap. Fernessa carved her way across the sky like a comet with opinions, heading next for her old flame—literally. Ignatius the Scorched, last seen yelling at a thunderbird over jurisdictional rights somewhere near Yellowstone. If anyone knew how to help her rebuild the mythic order and torch the mediocrity from humanity’s soul, it was her ex-boyfriend. He was a jackass, sure, but he was good at logistics. She found him where she expected: shirtless, covered in volcanic ash, yelling at a geyser like it owed him rent. Still sexy. Still insufferable. “Oh look,” he sneered, not turning around. “The sentient bonfire returns. Did you finally decide to stop moping about the rainforest and grow your fireballs back?” “I swear by every fern in my tail, if you make one joke about compost sex, I will incinerate your ego so hard you’ll respawn as a sea cucumber,” she snapped. He turned, grinning. Gods help her, he still had that lava-muscled smirk that made tectonic plates shift. But Fernessa wasn’t here for nostalgia. She was here for war. “I need allies,” she said flatly. “We’re reforming the Circle of Regrowth. It’s time we made the world believe again. Not in crystals. Not in gluten-free moon rituals. In fire. In rot. In the honest, terrifying magic of cycles. Burn it. Bury it. Grow it again.” Ignatius nodded, jaw tight. “You’ve changed.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s called photosynthesis. Try it.” By nightfall, word had spread. The Circle was reforming. The Great Serpent shed her skin early. The Water Spirits canceled their quarterly pity orgy to attend. Even the Stone Giants cracked open a few cold ones (literally—lava beer, not bad). Nature was waking up like a hangry goddess with unfinished business and a target list labeled “People Who Think Trees Are Optional.” And Fernessa? She was ready to remind the world that rebirth isn’t a spa treatment—it’s a blazing, filthy, complicated thing that smells like moss and fury and tastes like ash and wild honey. Moss to Ashes, Bitch The newly reformed Circle of Regrowth was a hot mess—and not the cute kind. No, this was the kind of mythic reunion that smelled like charred bark, ancient swamp breath, and egos fermenting in elemental tension. Fernessa stood at the center of the Grove of Reckoning, which someone had once bulldozed to build a golf course. Now it had been reclaimed by roots, steam, vines, and at least one pansexual ent who smelled like sandalwood and opinions. Around her stood the old gang: Ignatius the Scorched (shirtless, again, obviously), Dame Muddletree of the Sludgebourne Bogs, Vortexia Queen of Cyclones (currently swirling her own emotional storm), and of course, Greg—the earthworm demigod whose only line was “I wiggle for justice.” The meeting opened with a lot of posturing, thunderclaps, glowing runes, and deeply passive-aggressive announcements from a fungus spirit who’d been ghosted during the last cycle. Fernessa didn’t have time for it. She was already sketching war maps in soot, moss, and ash across the sacred floor. Her plan was outrageous, poetic, possibly illegal, and exactly what the planet needed. “We’re hitting all five Extraction Nexus Sites,” she declared. “The deep-frack scars. The tar-slick wastelands. The lithium-fucked crystal wounds. We burn the surface lies. Then we bury their bones in bloom.” “That sounds like terrorism,” whispered a sentient vine with commitment issues. “No,” Fernessa snapped. “It’s restoration with flair.” The Circle roared in approval, except for Greg, who just wiggled solemnly. Even he felt the fire now. Phase One: Burn the Lies They struck fast and strange. Fernessa dive-bombed a corporate skyscraper shaped like a giant “E” for “Energy,” leaving it covered in flame-shaped ivy that spelled out “Nature Says No.” Ignatius caused a geyser eruption in the middle of a televised shareholder meeting. Muddletree swallowed an offshore rig in sentient bog bubbles that burped the words “Suck My Swamp.” Vortexia? Oh, she just cyclone-launched 17 million straws into low Earth orbit and turned a plastic island into a sea turtle spa. It wasn’t destruction. It was performance art with an eco-terrorist kink. They left no blood—only ash, moss, and the haunted realization that maybe, just maybe, people should stop screwing the Earth like it’s a disposable prom date. Phase Two: Bury the Bullshit They didn’t just raze the old. They replanted, resurrected, regrew. Forests pulsed up from the roots like botanical revenge. Bees with glowing wings began pollinating ancient seeds Fernessa dug out from beneath fossil highways. Coral reefs started forming messages in bioluminescent Morse code that translated roughly to: “Y’all really messed it up. But thanks for the kelp.” And then came the final ritual. The Ash Reignition. The last time this had happened, Atlantis had exploded into a series of spa resorts and myths. This time, it would be streamed live (accidentally, by a park ranger named Dana with surprisingly good Wi-Fi). Fernessa rose from the Grove of Reckoning once more—wings alight, feathers shedding sparks, vines wrapping around her legs like green garters of vengeance. Above her, a storm brewed not from weather but from memory, grief, and about a thousand years of pent-up Earth rage waiting to turn into joy. She sang. It wasn’t human music. It was the sound of bark splitting open with spring. The hush of an old glacier exhaling. The scream of a seed cracking in fire to find life. It broke everything and healed it simultaneously. The song lit the skies on fire, then rained molten petals, dew-soaked ash, and inspiration down on every corner of the wounded planet. People felt it. Oh, they didn’t all understand it—some thought it was a Wi-Fi outage mixed with mushrooms—but they felt it. Politicians woke up sobbing. Billionaires had sudden inexplicable urges to garden shirtless and donate land back to indigenous communities. An oil CEO quit his job mid-press conference and opened a fern sanctuary. (He still sucked, but… small steps.) Meanwhile, Fernessa landed on the peak of a redwood taller than any building and watched the moon rise, smoky and full, reflected in her eye like a quiet, glowing exclamation mark. Behind her, the Circle had scattered, their missions complete, their revenge fermented into healing like compost turned gold. Ignatius landed beside her, wings twitching. “So,” he said. “What now?” Fernessa stared into the distance. “Now? We nap. And when I wake up in five hundred years, I better not find another gluten-free fondue yoga cult on sacred moss.” He snorted. “You’ve changed.” She rolled her eyes, nestled into the crook of a mossy branch, and muttered, “It’s called evolution. Deal with it.” As her glow dimmed and steam curled around the cradle of the ancient tree, the world breathed easier. The phoenix had risen—not just to burn, but to bloom. And somewhere deep in the soil, Greg the Worm whispered, “Wiggle complete.”     Feeling the fire? Ready to bring a little Fernessa flair into your own sacred space (or, let’s be honest, cover that weird patch on your wall)? Good news, mortal: you can now bask in the glory of Ash and Bloom without spontaneously combusting. Snag the tapestry and turn any room into a shrine of mossy defiance, grab a framed print to whisper to your soul every morning, or collapse into the firebird’s leafy embrace with this glorious throw pillow. Need to carry your existential rage and compostable snacks? The tote bag has you covered. Embrace the cycle. Burn bright. Bloom hard.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Lullaby in a Leafdrop

It’s a little-known fact—scrupulously left out of most fairy tales because of its messiness and alarming wetness—that fairies are not born in the traditional sense. They are brewed. Yes, brewed. Like tea or poor decisions. At precisely 4:42 a.m., before the first robin even thinks about coughing out a chirp, the dew collects on the tip of a heart-shaped leaf deep within the forests of Slumbrook Hollow. If the temperature is just cold enough to make a spider wear socks, but warm enough that a squirrel can scratch itself lazily without shivering, the brewing begins. The recipe? Simple: one drop of moonlight that missed its target, two specks of laughter from a sleeping child, a dash of forest gossip (usually about raccoons behaving inappropriately), and one blade of grass that’s been kissed by lightning at least once. Stir gently with the breeze of a forgotten wish, and voilà—you have the beginning of a fairy. Now, these aren’t fairies as you might imagine them. They don’t pop out fluttering with tiaras and purpose. No, the first stage of fairy development is embryonic sass in a gelatinous mood sac. They’re mostly wing, attitude, and napping. Their first instinct upon "waking" is to sigh dramatically and roll over, which often causes the entire dewdrop to tilt dangerously, sending everyone into a panic except the fairy, who mutters “Five more minutes,” and promptly passes out again. The fairy in question this particular morning was named **Plink**. Not because anyone named her, but because that’s the sound her dewdrop made when it formed, and the forest takes naming conventions quite literally. Plink was already a bit of a diva, her wings shimmering with the subtle arrogance of someone who knows she was born glittery. She curled up inside her liquid leaf hammock, tiny hands tucked beneath a chin that had never known the touch of responsibility. Outside the dewdrop, however, chaos brewed. A beetle patrol was out on morning rounds and had spotted Plink’s nursery hanging precariously from a twig targeted by a particularly aggressive blue jay. The forest had rules: no jay traffic before dawn, no unnecessary loud flapping, and absolutely no pooping near the dew nurseries. Unfortunately, the blue jay had a reputation for violating all three. Enter Sir Grumblethorpe, a retired mole-knight in tweed armor, wearing a monocle that didn’t improve his vision so much as his self-esteem. He’d taken it upon himself to ensure Plink’s survival. “No fairy’s going to get scrambled on my watch,” he declared, thumping the ground with his walking acorn staff, which was mostly ceremonial and partially rotten. What no one had realized yet—not even Plink in her blissfully gelatinous snooze—was that today was the last viable dew-day of the season. If she didn’t hatch before sundown, the drop would evaporate, and she'd become a memory, drifting off into the realm of nearly-made-things, like diets and honest politicians. But right now? Right now, Plink drooled a little, one wing flopping gently against the inside curve of the drop, dreaming of sugar plums, existential dread, and an itch on her foot she didn’t yet know how to scratch. And the blue jay? Oh, he was circling. Sir Grumblethorpe adjusted his monocle with the dramatic flair of someone who felt very important and, frankly, wasn’t going to let a little thing like scale stop him from acting like it. After all, it took tremendous courage to be one-nineteenth of the size of the threat and still shout orders like you owned the shrub. “Battle stations!” he declared, though precisely what that meant in a forest that had never seen a battle was left vague. A centipede scurried by with two pencils and a wine cork for armor, shouting, “Where’s the fire?!” and tripped over a snail who’d been asleep for most of the decade. Meanwhile, Plink dreamt she was the Queen of Marmalade Kingdom, riding a honeybee into battle against a horde of breakfast crumbs. She had no idea her leafdrop was now the central focus of a multi-species emergency council convening beneath her on a mossy stump. “Let’s be rational,” said Professor Thistlehump, a weasel with spectacles thick enough to burn ants in winter. “If we just ask the jay politely—” “You want to negotiate with an airborne fart with feathers?” snapped Madame Spritzy, a disgraced hummingbird opera singer turned tactical screecher. “This is war, darling. War with feathers, guano, and beady-eyed doom.” Sir Grumblethorpe agreed. Or rather, he didn’t disagree fast enough, which was close enough. “We need air support,” he muttered, stroking his chin thoughtfully. “Spritzy, can you still fly the Pattern of Mirthful Panic?” “Please,” she scoffed, fluffing her feathers. “I invented it. Watch the skies.” Above them, the blue jay—named **Kevin** (because of course his name was Kevin)—began his final descent. Kevin had a simple mind, mostly composed of shiny objects, food, and a belief that screaming as loud as possible was a form of communication. He spotted the glint of the dewdrop and squawked with what could only be described as delight or rage, or perhaps both simultaneously. Spritzy launched like a caffeinated firework. She zig-zagged wildly, shrieking an aria from “Pond Pirates: The Musical” at a pitch that made several worms explode from stress alone. Kevin flapped midair, confused and mildly aroused, then backpedaled with surprising grace for something that once ate a frog for fun. Meanwhile, deep inside the dewdrop, Plink finally stirred. Her dreams had turned into gentle nudges—stirrings from the realm of waking. Her translucent wings began to twitch like radio signals tuning into the frequency of reality. The warmth of the day was starting to tickle the base of the dewdrop, and somewhere, instinct began to whisper: Hatch now. Or don’t. Your call. But hatch now if you’d prefer not to be steam. But Plink was groggy. And let’s be honest, if you’ve never tried waking up from a dream where you were being serenaded by a choir of marshmallows, you don’t know how hard it is to give that up. She rolled over, pressed her face to the dewdrop’s inner surface, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Shhh. Five more eternities.” Sir Grumblethorpe stomped his foot. “She’s not hatching! Why isn’t she hatching?!” He looked up toward the treetop, where Kevin had now found a shiny gum wrapper and was momentarily distracted. The emergency council reconvened in a panic. “We need something powerful! Something symbolic!” hissed Madame Spritzy as she divebombed into the meeting. “I have an old kazoo,” offered a squirrel who had never been invited to anything before and was just thrilled to be included. “Use it!” barked Grumblethorpe. “Wake her up! Play the Song of the First Flight!” “No one knows the tune!” cried Thistlehump. “Well then,” Grumblethorpe said grimly, “we wing it.” And so they did. The kazoo howled. The forest cringed. Even Kevin stopped mid-flap, beak agape, unsure if he was under attack or witnessing interpretive art. Inside the dewdrop, Plink twitched violently. Her eyes snapped open. The air trembled. Her wings exploded into light, catching the sun like a disco ball made of dreams and backtalk. The dewdrop shimmered, vibrated, and with a sound like a bubble giggling, it popped. And there she was—hovering. Tiny, wet, blinking at the world, and already looking unimpressed by the fact that she was awake at all. “You’re all very loud,” she said with the kind of disdain only a newborn fairy could muster while dripping with celestial goo. Kevin tried one last dive, but was immediately hit in the face by an angry badger with a slingshot. He retreated into the sky with a squawk of defeat and one of Madame Spritzy’s feathers stuck to his tail. Below, the forest held its breath. Plink looked around. She slowly raised one eyebrow. “So… where’s my welcome brunch?” Sir Grumblethorpe fell to his knees. “She speaks!” “No,” Plink corrected with a shrug, “I sass.” And that was the first moment anyone in Slumbrook Hollow realized what kind of fairy she was going to be. Next up? Flight school. Possibly sabotage. And definitely brunch. If you're expecting a tale of rapid character development, noble quests, and tidy emotional closure, I regret to inform you: Plink was not that kind of fairy. The first hour of her conscious existence was spent trying to eat the petals off a daisy, attempting to seduce a bumblebee (“Call me when you’re done pollinating”), and announcing, loudly, that she would never be doing chores unless those chores involved dramatic exits or glitter-based warfare. Still, for all her sass and damp sparkles, Plink was, in a deeply peculiar way, hopeful. Not the gentle, passive sort of hope. No, her hope had teeth. It snarled. It strutted. It demanded brunch before diplomacy. The kind of hope that said: “The world is probably terrible, but I will look fabulous while surviving it.” Madame Spritzy took her under-wing (literally), beginning an unlicensed and highly irregular crash course in flying. “Flap like your enemies are watching,” she barked, circling Plink who spun midair, spiraled downward, and crash-landed in a patch of moss with all the grace of a fallen blueberry. “You said I was born to fly!” Plink wheezed, spitting out a beetle. “I said you were born in a droplet. The rest is up to you.” Flight school continued for three chaotic days, during which Plink broke two twigs, dive-bombed a fungus, and accidentally invented a new type of aerial swear gesture. Her wings grew stronger. Her sarcasm sharpened. By the fourth morning, she could hover in place long enough to sneer convincingly, which was considered a graduation requirement. But the forest was changing. The dew was thinning. The weather warming. Plink’s own birth had been the season’s final droplet—meaning she wasn’t just the last fairy of spring. She was the only fairy of this bloom cycle. The last tiny miracle before the long, dry season ahead. No pressure. Naturally, when she found out, her first response was to fall dramatically onto a mushroom and yell, “Why meeeeeee?” which startled a hedgehog into fainting. But after several exasperated lectures from Professor Thistlehump and one extremely caffeinated pep talk from Sir Grumblethorpe involving the phrase “legacy of luminous lineage,” she relented. Sort of. Plink decided to become the kind of fairy who didn’t wait for fate. She would build her own kind. Not in a creepy lab way. In a fairy godmother-meets-contractor kind of way. She would whisper magic into seedpods. She’d bottle dreams and tuck them into acorns. She’d snatch laughter from moonlit lovers and tuck it into pinecones. She didn’t need to be the last. She could be the first of the next wave. “I’m going to teach squirrels to make hope bombs,” she announced one morning, inexplicably wearing a cape made of moss and attitude. “Hope bombs?” asked Grumblethorpe, adjusting his monocle. “Little spells wrapped in berries. If you bite one, you get five seconds of unreasonable optimism. Like thinking your ex was a good idea. Or that you can fit back into your pre-winter leggings.” And so it began: Plink’s odd campaign of mischief, magic, and emotional disruption. She buzzed from leaf to leaf, whispering weirdness into the world. Lonely mushrooms woke up giggling. Wilted flowers perked up and requested dance music. Even Kevin the blue jay started carrying shiny twigs to other birds, no longer dive-bombing hatchlings but (awkwardly) babysitting them. The forest adapted to her chaos. Grew brighter in places. Stranger in others. Where Plink had passed, you could always tell. A leaf might glitter for no reason. A puddle might hum. A tree might tell a joke that made no sense but made you laugh anyway. And Plink? Well, she grew. Not bigger—she was still the size of a hiccup. But deeper. Wiser. And somehow, more Plink than ever. One twilight, many seasons later, a tiny dewdrop formed on a new leaf. Inside it, curled in soft sleep, a fairy fluttered its brand-new wings. Around the drop, the forest held its breath again, waiting, wondering. From above, a streak of mischievous light circled the branch. Plink peered down, smiled, and whispered: “You’ve got this, sparklebutt.” Then she zipped away into the stars, leaving behind a single echo of laughter, a speck of glitter, and a world forever changed by one loud, brilliant drop of hope.     Bring the magic home. If Plink's tale stirred your imagination or made you laugh-snort tea, you can carry a piece of that enchantment into your own space. "Lullaby in a Leafdrop" is available as a canvas print, metal print, acrylic print, and even a dreamy tapestry to turn your wall into a window to Slumbrook Hollow. Perfect for lovers of fantasy decor, fairy tale fans, and anyone who believes a little glitter and grit can change the world.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Tiny Roars & Rising Embers

Of Smoke Rings and Sass-Fueled Friendships Once upon a high-ass noon in the middle of a nowhere-meadow that smelled suspiciously of toasted daisies and regret, a baby phoenix crash-landed face-first into a clump of thistle. She sizzled like a marshmallow on the Fourth of July and let out a squeal that could de-feather a vulture. "Bloody ash biscuits!" she screeched, flapping her half-baked wings and shaking off what looked like scorched pollen. She was not having a glamorous rebirth moment. She was having a full-on existential molt in public. From behind a bush that had clearly seen better landscaping choices, came a snorting giggle. A baby dragon—stubby, soot-covered, and already reeking of questionable decision-making—rolled out, clutching his scaly belly. "Did the fire goddess forget the landing instructions again, Hot Stuff?" he burped, releasing a small puff of smoke in the shape of a middle finger. His name was Gorp. Short for Gorpelthrax the Devourer, which was hilarious considering he had the intimidation level of a fart in church. "Oh, good. A heckle-lizard with acne and no wings. Tell me, Gorp, do all the dragonettes in your nest smell like burnt meat and shame?" snapped the phoenix, whose name, for reasons she refused to explain, was Charlene. Just Charlene. She claimed it was exotic. Like citrus. Or cologne sold in gas stations. Charlene stood up, did a dramatic shake that flung embers everywhere (and mildly threatened a butterfly), and strutted over with the wobbly arrogance of a half-baked diva. "If I wanted unsolicited roasting, I’d visit my Aunt Salmora. She's a salamander with two exes and a grudge." Gorp grinned. "You’re feisty. I like that in a flammable friend." The two stared at each other with mutual disgust and budding affection—the kind of confused, 'I’m not sure if I want to fight you or braid your hair' energy that only magical misfits can muster. And as the warm summer breeze blew across the meadow, carrying the scent of charred grass and destiny, the first cracks of a weird, wild friendship began to take hold. “So,” Charlene said, fluffing her tail feathers, “you just hang around in flower fields puffing smoke rings and judging firebirds?” “Nah,” Gorp replied, picking a ladybug off his tongue. “Usually I hunt squirrels and emotionally damage frogs. This is just my brunch spot.” Charlene smirked. “Fabulous. Let’s make it our war room.” And with that, the phoenix and the dragon plopped down among the blooms, already planning whatever nonsense would come next—completely unaware they’d just signed up for a week of stolen cheese, pant-stealing raccoons, and that one centaur orgy they’d rather not talk about. Yet. The Cheese Heist, The Centaur Cult, and the Pants That Weren’t The following morning arrived with all the grace of a hungover satyr trying to do yoga. The sun bled into the sky like overripe marmalade, and Charlene’s feathers were extra frizzy—possibly from the dew, but more likely from dreams involving a singing cauldron and a flirtatious gnome with a beard that wouldn't quit. “We need a quest,” she declared, stretching her wings and accidentally setting a passing grasshopper on fire. Gorp, chewing on a half-melted pinecone, squinted up from his supine position in a patch of mint. “What we need is brunch. Preferably with cheese. Maybe pants.” Charlene blinked. “What in the name of Merlin’s flaming foot fungus does cheese have to do with pants?” “Everything,” Gorp said, entirely too seriously. “Everything.” And that’s how it began: a mission forged in nonsense, fueled by lactose-based cravings and a mutual inability to say no to chaos. According to the local buzzard—Steve, who freelanced as a gossip columnist—they’d find the best cheese stash this side of the fire mountains in the abandoned cellars of a former centaur monastery turned nudist spa retreat. Obviously. “It’s called Saddlehorn,” Steve had hissed, eyes gleaming. “But don’t ask questions. Just bring me a wheel of the triple-aged smoulder-gouda and we’ll call it even.” “You want us to rob a cult of centaur cheese monks?” Charlene asked, mildly offended that she hadn’t thought of it first. “They’re not monks anymore,” Steve clarified. “Now they just chant affirmations and oil each other’s thighs. It’s evolved.” Their journey to Saddlehorn took approximately four fart breaks, two detours caused by Charlene’s crippling fear of hedgehogs (“They’re just pinecones with eyes, Gorp!”), and one awkward moment involving a cursed toadstool that whispered tax advice. By the time they reached the spa, the meadow behind them looked like it had been trampled by a caffeine-fueled behemoth with commitment issues. Charlene was ready for blood. Gorp was ready for cheese. Neither was ready for what awaited beyond the hedgerow. Saddlehorn was...not what they expected. Picture a sprawling estate made of polished wood, gentle waterfalls, and lavender-scented steam. Picture also: thirty-seven shirtless centaurs doing synchronized yoga while whispering “I am enough” in haunting unison. Gorp immediately tried to inhale his own head in embarrassment. “Oh gods, they’re hot,” he whispered, voice cracking like a bad omelet. Charlene, on the other hand, had never been hornier—or more confused. “Focus,” she hissed. “We’re here for the gouda, not the glutes.” They snuck in through a laundry basket of loincloths—Charlene lighting one accidentally on fire and blaming “ambient heat energy”—and slithered (well, waddled) down to the cellar. The smell hit them first: pungent, aged, slightly sexy. Rows upon rows of enchanted cheese wheels glowed softly in the dim light, radiating buttery power. “Sweet mother of melty miracles,” Gorp breathed. “We could build a life here.” But fate, as always, is a smirking bastard. Just as Charlene jammed a gouda wheel into her tailfeathers, a loud neigh erupted behind them. There stood Brother Chadwick of the Inner Thigh Circle—head oilist, chief cheese guardian, and possibly a Sagittarius. “Who dares desecrate the holy dairy sanctum?” he thundered, flexing in slow motion for dramatic effect. “Hi, yes, hello,” Charlene said, smiling with the confidence of someone who’d set fire to every escape route already. “I’m Brenda and this is my emotional support lizard. We’re on a cheese pilgrimage.” Brother Chadwick blinked. “Brenda?” “Yes. Brenda the Eternal. Holder of the Feta Flame.” There was a tense silence. Then—bless the idiot universe—Gorp burped smoke in the shape of a cheese wedge. That was enough. “They are the Chosen!” someone yelled. In the next 48 minutes, Charlene and Gorp were crowned honorary lactose priests, treated to an awkward massage ceremony, and allowed to leave with a ceremonial cheese wheel of destiny (triple-aged, smoked with elderberry ash, and cursed to scream the word “BUTTERFACE” once a week). As they waddled back to their meadow—Charlene with a tail full of smuggled curd, Gorp licking what may or may not have been goat sweat from his claws—they agreed it had been their best brunch yet. “We make a damn good team,” Charlene murmured. “Yeah,” Gorp said, snuggling the cheese. “You’re the best fire hazard I’ve ever met.” And somewhere in the distance, Steve the buzzard wept tears of joy... and cholesterol. Of Raccoon Politics, Firestorms, and the Feral Thing Called Friendship Back in the meadow, things had gotten... complicated. Charlene and Gorp’s return from their cheesy spiritual journey had not gone unnoticed. Word had spread, as it tends to in magical circles, and within days their meadow had turned into a pilgrimage site for every half-baked forest nutjob with a bone to bless or a toe fungus to cure. There were druids meditating in Gorp’s favorite fart puddle. Fauns composing lute ballads about “The Gouda and the Glory.” At least one unicorn attempted to huff Charlene’s tail for “sacred combustion vibes.” “We need to leave,” Charlene said, eye twitching, as she kicked a bard out of her nest for the third time that morning. “We need to RULE,” Gorp replied, now fully reclined in a hammock made from elf-hair and dreams, wearing a crown made of daisy chains and cheese rinds. “We’re legends now. Like Bigfoot, but hotter.” Charlene narrowed her eyes. “You don’t even wear pants, Gorp.” “Legends don’t need pants.” But before Charlene could light him on fire for the twelfth time that week, a rustle in the underbrush interrupted their bickering. Out popped a delegation of raccoons—six strong, each wearing tiny monocles, and the one in front wielding a scroll made of birch bark and passive-aggression. “Greetings, Firebird and Flatulent One,” the lead raccoon said, voice like wet gravel. “We represent the local Council of Dumpster Sovereignty. You’ve disrupted the ecological and political balance of the meadow, and we’re here to file a formal grievance.” Charlene blinked. Gorp farted nervously. “Your reckless cheese heist,” the raccoon continued, “has created a black market for dairy. Ferrets are rioting. Hedgehogs are hoarding gouda. And the goblin economy has completely collapsed. We demand reparations.” Charlene slowly turned to Gorp. “Did you—did you sell cheese on the black market?” “Define sell,” Gorp said, sweating. “Define black. Define market.” What followed was a montage of chaos, possibly set to banjo music and moonlight screams. The raccoons declared martial law. Charlene incinerated a wheel of brie in protest. Gorp accidentally summoned a cheese elemental named Craig who would only speak in puns and had violent opinions about cheddar purity. The climax hit when Charlene, cornered by raccoon enforcers, let out a scream so powerful it ignited half the sky. Feathers blazing, she soared into the air—her first real flight since the meadow crash—and dove like a comet into the horde, scattering rodents and flaming scrolls in all directions. Gorp, seeing her explode with rage and beauty and possibly hormones, did the only logical thing. He roared. A real roar. Not a sneeze-fart combo. A deep, ancient, dragon-born, bowel-rattling roar that split a tree, scared a skunk into therapy, and echoed through the hills like a declaration of sass-fueled war. The battle was short, smelly, and slightly erotic. When the dust cleared, the meadow was a wreck, Craig the Cheese Elemental had exploded into fondue, and the raccoons were holding a silent vigil for their fallen monocles. Charlene and Gorp collapsed in the wreckage, covered in soot, feathers, and at least three kinds of gouda. “That,” Gorp wheezed, “was the hottest damn thing I’ve ever seen.” Charlene laughed so hard she snorted fire. “You finally roared.” “Yeah. For you.” There was a long pause. Somewhere in the distance, a confused squirrel tried to hump a pinecone. Life was returning to normal. “You’re the worst friend I’ve ever had,” Charlene said. “Same,” Gorp replied, grinning. They lay in silence, watching the stars bleed into the sky. No cheese. No cults. Just fire and friendship. And maybe—just maybe—the beginning of something even dumber. “So…” Charlene said at last, “what’s next?” Gorp shrugged. “Wanna go steal a wizard’s bathtub?” Charlene smiled. “Hell yes.”     Bring a little chaos, charm, and cheese-fueled myth into your world! Immortalize the legendary saga of Charlene and Gorp with stunning art collectibles like this metal print that gleams with phoenix-level shine, or an acrylic print that brings out every sass-drenched feather and fart-lit flame. Feeling bold? Try puzzling together their epic cheese heist in this jigsaw puzzle—a perfect gift for people who enjoy mythical disasters and raccoon uprisings. Or set the mood for your own magical meadow with an art tapestry worthy of a centaur cult spa. Gorp-approved. Charlene-blessed. Possibly enchanted. Probably flammable.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Tiny But Ticked Off

The Stump Situation In the middle of the Bellowing Pinewood, just past the grumpy willow who swore at birds and before the mossy rock that looked suspiciously like your ex, sat a tree stump. Not just any stump — this one smoldered with attitude. Burnt at the edges from a spell gone wrong (or right, depending on which witch you asked), and surrounded by crisp, curled autumn leaves, it had become something of a local attraction. Not for the stump itself, mind you. No one really cared about a stump, even a slightly singed one. What drew the gawkers, the gaspers, and the not-so-subtle sketch artists was the baby dragon squatting right atop it. About the size of a corgi, but far more judgmental, he was a glimmering puff of sapphire scale, spiked tail, and chronic side-eye. His name — and don’t you dare laugh — was Crispin T. Blort. The "T" stood for "Terror," though some claimed it stood for "Tiramisu" after a naming mishap involving dessert and ale. Either way, the point is: Crispin was, without question, over it. He was over the elves who kept stopping by to “boop his snoot.” Over the halfling bards who wrote odes about his “cutie-wittle fireballs.” And he was especially over the traveling influencers who draped him in flower crowns for their “Forest Core” TikToks. He was a DRAGON, not some enchanted handbag! “Touch me again and I will flambé your kneecaps,” he warned one morning, his voice somehow managing to sound both adorable and deeply menacing. A chipmunk froze mid-acorn heist and passed out from sheer intimidation. Or possibly from the fumes — Crispin had roasted a mushroom omelet earlier and, well, let’s just say eggs plus sulfur equals atmosphere. Despite his size, Crispin knew he was destined for greatness. He had dreams. Ambitions. A five-year plan that involved treasure, domination, and a personal assistant who wasn’t afraid of talons. But for now, he was stuck defending a tree stump in the middle of nowhere from well-meaning tourists and enchanted squirrels. One particularly brisk morning, as the leaves performed synchronized dives off their branches, Crispin awoke to the sound of giggling. Not the innocent kind. No, this was the unmistakable snicker of someone about to do something profoundly stupid. Slowly, eyes still half-lidded with disdain, he turned his head toward the noise. Two gnomes. One holding a cup of glitter. The other holding... was that a tutu? Crispin’s eyes glowed a little brighter. His tail twitched. His smirk spread like a gossiping gremlin across his face. “Oh,” he purred, cracking his knuckles (claws? knucklaws?), “You really want to do this today.” And that, dear reader, was the last moment of peace the Pinewood would know for a long, long time. Gnomes, Glitter, and Gratuitous Gloating “Wait, is he smiling?” whispered the smaller gnome, Fizzlestump, who held the glitter. His friend, Thimblewhack, clutched the pink tutu like it was the Holy Grail of humiliation. They had come prepared. They had rehearsed their lines. They had even brought enchanted oat bars as peace offerings. What they had not anticipated was that the tiny dragon on the stump — despite his adorable widdle size — would smirk like a Vegas blackjack dealer about to wreck your rent money. “Go on,” Crispin said, stretching languidly, wings flaring open just enough to send a flurry of dry leaves cascading into the gnomes’ faces. “Put the tutu on me. Do it. I double dare you, Fizzle-whatever.” Fizzlestump blinked. “H-how did he know my name?” “I know everything,” Crispin purred. “Like the fact you still sleep with a teddy bear named ‘Colonel Snugglenuts’ and that your cousin tried to marry a turnip last Midsummer.” Thimblewhack dropped the tutu. “Let me be clear,” Crispin continued, rising slowly, smoke curling from his nostrils like the world's sassiest incense. “You don’t glitter a dragon. Not unless you want to fart sparkles for the rest of your life and smell like regret mixed with elderflower shampoo.” “But it’s for charity,” Fizzlestump squeaked. “I am a charity,” Crispin snapped. “I’m charitable enough not to incinerate your shoe collection, which I assume consists entirely of orthopedic clogs and one suspiciously sexy leather boot.” With a single flap of his wings — more for dramatic effect than necessity — Crispin vaulted off the stump and landed between the two gnomes. They shrieked in harmony, clutching each other like protagonists in a poorly rated romantic comedy. “Let me show you something,” Crispin said, dragging a claw through the dirt like he was about to explain battle strategy to a pair of sentient beets. “This is my domain. This stump? Mine. That patch of moss that smells weird when it rains? Also mine. And that tree over there — the one shaped like a middle finger? Yeah. Named it after my mood.” Fizzlestump and Thimblewhack, both shaking like leaf salad in a wind tunnel, nodded rapidly. “Now. I have a very simple philosophy,” Crispin continued, walking slow circles around them like a furry blue shark with questionable ethics. “You glitter me, I gaslight you. You tutu me, I torch your topiary garden. You call me ‘snuggles,’ and I send a strongly worded letter to the Department of Hex Enforcement listing all your browser history.” Fizzlestump collapsed. Thimblewhack soiled himself just a little — barely noticeable, really. “BUT,” Crispin said, now lounging dramatically on his own tail like an actor awaiting applause, “I’m willing to forgive. I believe in second chances. I believe in redemption. And I believe — deeply, truly — in community service.” “Oh, thank the stars,” Thimblewhack gasped. “So here’s what’s going to happen,” Crispin said, claws tapping like the world's sassiest metronome. “You two are going to go into the village square. You’re going to gather a crowd. And you’re going to perform an interpretive dance titled 'The Audacity of Gnome'. There will be props. There will be glitter. And there will be musical accompaniment provided by my new friend, Gary the Screaming Possum.” Gary, who had wandered up during the drama, let out a blood-curdling shriek that sounded like a banshee trying to sing disco. The gnomes whimpered. “And if you refuse,” Crispin added with a grin wide enough to scare thunder, “I will sneeze directly into your facial hair. Which, as we all know, is magically bound to your reputation.” Fizzlestump started crying softly. “Good talk,” Crispin said, patting each of them lightly with the kind of sarcastic affection normally reserved for passive-aggressive HR meetings. “Now run along. You’ve got jazz hands to prepare.” As the gnomes scurried off in a blur of shame and glitter, Crispin flopped back on his stump, tail curling contentedly around his claws. The forest quieted again — even the wind paused, unsure whether to laugh or bow. From the branches above, a wise old owl shook its head. “You’re going to start a war, you know.” Crispin didn't even look up. “Good. I’ll bring the marshmallows.” And somewhere, deep in the enchanted foliage, the ancient magic of Pinewood stirred... sensing that a storm — or at least a really dramatic talent show — was on its way. Smoke, Sparkles, and the Smug Awakening The gnome performance hit Pinewood like a glam-rock meteor. Villagers gathered in the square expecting a harvest festival, only to be greeted by two quivering gnomes in sequined lederhosen performing what could only be described as a fever dream choreographed by a glitter-obsessed banshee with ADHD. Gary the Screaming Possum provided an audio experience that defied mortal language and possibly several sound ordinances. The highlight of the show — apart from the moment Fizzlestump was catapulted out of a papier-mâché mushroom cannon — was Thimblewhack’s solo interpretive wriggle entitled "We Should Not Have Mocked the Dragon." The villagers were too baffled to interrupt. Several fainted. One old centaur declared it a religious experience and renounced pants forever. Crispin, watching from atop a magical scrying puddle in his stump lair, dabbed the corner of his eye with a leaf. “Art,” he whispered. “This is what happens when petty vengeance meets interpretive jazz.” And while most thought the affair would be forgotten within a fortnight, Pinewood had other plans. The performance awakened something. Not a literal ancient evil — that was still sealed under the tavern, snoring softly — but a cultural ripple. The villagers were inspired. Inter-species dance competitions were scheduled. Glitter sales skyrocketed. The mayor declared every Thursday henceforth as “Dramatic Justice Day.” The town slogan was updated to: “We Don’t Tutu Dragons, We Embrace Them.” For the first time in generations, Pinewood wasn’t just a sleepy nook on the edge of the realm. It was the place. Trendy. Infused with chaotic joy. The kind of town where gnomes, goblins, and gremlins could coexist in collective weirdness. Crispin didn’t just start a movement — he incinerated the rulebook and replaced it with glitter, sass, and bite-sized revolution. Of course, not all were thrilled. The Woodland Purity League (founded by a cranky dryad who thought moss was a personality trait) tried to stage a protest. It ended poorly when Crispin challenged their leader to a rap battle and dropped bars so fiery a pinecone caught fire mid-rhyme. Meanwhile, Crispin found his fame had perks. Offers rolled in. Royalty requested fire lessons. Artists asked to paint his “angriest pose.” Someone sent him a golden chaise lounge. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he burned it. For ambiance. But even with rising notoriety, Crispin stayed true to his stump. “I’m not leaving,” he told a journalist from the Enchanted Times, sipping a marshmallow-laced cappuccino from a goblet. “This is ground zero for the snarkquake. Also, my tail looks amazing in this light.” He’d built a following. Cultivated a vibe. Influenced a town and possibly a small demigod who now insisted on wearing bedazzled capes. His legend — like his wings — kept growing. One dusk, as dragonkind began whispering of him in hushed tones (mostly “How is that smug lizard getting more fan mail than the Great Wyrm of Nork?”), Crispin lay curled on his stump, tail swishing, eyes glinting in the molten sunset. “I did good,” he murmured. A hedgehog rolled by with a bouquet and a letter of admiration from a fan club called “Scalies for Sass.” He accepted it with a nod and immediately set it on fire. For branding. And just as he began to drift into sleep, a breeze carried distant words through the forest: “...is that the dragon who made the gnomes dance and punched a unicorn in the feelings?” Crispin smiled. Not just any smile. The smile. That smug, bratty, glimmering grin that had launched a thousand awkward dance routines and at least three poetry slams. “Yes,” he whispered to the wind, glowing faintly in the evening haze. “I am.” And somewhere in the swirling gold of twilight, a new legend was born — of the tiny dragon on the stump who conquered an entire village, one sarcastic smirk at a time.     Bring Crispin Home (Without Getting Singed) If you’ve fallen in love with Crispin’s bratty brilliance and scaly sarcasm, you don’t have to journey into the Pinewood to see him again. Whether you want a daily dose of sass on your wall, your couch, or even in your stationery stack, we’ve captured his most iconic pose — tail curled, eyes glowing, attitude at 110% — in a collection of “Tiny But Ticked Off” gifts and prints. Canvas Print: Let Crispin’s glorious scaly mug take center stage on your wall. Perfect for spaces that need a little fire — or a lot of personality. Own the canvas here. Framed Print: Make it official. Put a frame on that smirk and let the world know your décor has bite. Frame your fire here. Greeting Card: Know someone who needs a little dragon energy? Send them sass in a stampable format. Send the smirk here. Spiral Notebook: Plot your revenge, doodle snarky dragons, or just write your grocery list like a boss. Get yours here. Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in mischief and fluff with this ridiculously soft throw featuring everyone’s favorite infernal gremlin. Snuggle the sass here. Crispin doesn’t bite — much. But his products? They slap. 🔥

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Pounce of the Poison Cap

The Shroom with a View It began, as most ridiculous tales do, with a purring lie and a daring squat atop a toadstool the size of a barstool. Tabitha Nine-Lives — part cat, part woman, all sass — perched smugly on her favorite fly agaric like it was her royal throne. Her striped fur shimmered in the damp light of dusk, tail flicking with feline superiority as if to say: Yes, I am absurdly gorgeous and possibly lethal. Deal with it. The forest around her dripped with secrets. Literal ones — some of the trees had mouths. But that was beside the point. The real danger was far less botanical and far more... bipedal. A new player had entered the woods. A human. A tall, confused, annoyingly handsome one who smelled like confidence issues and overpriced cologne. Tabitha had been watching him for three days. From the tops of trees, under ferns, through illusionary puddles — the usual. He didn’t know it yet, but he was already doomed. Not because the forest would eat him (though, to be fair, parts of it did bite), but because she had decided he was her next puzzle. “You're not ready for me,” she murmured with a purr, curling her claws around the cap of the mushroom as if it were a drumroll. “But then again, who is?” She crouched lower, eyes glowing in the dimness like twin moons on the prowl. Her ears twitched. He was close now. Crunching through leaves with all the subtlety of a toddler in tap shoes. Humans were such gloriously un-stealthy creatures. Like if a ham sandwich tried to join a ninja cult. Still, this one was curious. He’d asked the trees questions. He’d tried to pet a thorn bush (that had gone badly). And last night, he’d looked directly at a wispsnake and said, “Hey, do you talk?” Oh, honey. Tabitha hadn’t laughed that hard since the Dryad Queen tried to flirt with a scarecrow. She’d nearly fallen out of a pine tree. Which, for a cat-woman, was deeply embarrassing. But also worth it. Now it was time to escalate things. She licked the back of her paw (mostly for effect), adjusted her assets, and whispered a spell that smelled faintly of cinnamon and regret. A swirl of gold shimmered around her claws. The bait was set. Because tonight, she wasn’t just watching. She was going to make contact. Or more accurately, she was going to toy with her prey like a laser pointer on meth. And if the poor boy survived it? Maybe, just maybe, he’d earn the right to learn her real name. But probably not. She pounced off the mushroom, landing with a sound no louder than a smirk. Her silhouette vanished into the shadowed brambles, tail curling like a question mark behind her. The hunt had officially begun. Breadcrumbs, Bait, and the Boy Who Should Have Turned Back Wesley Crane was not having a good week. First, he got dumped by text (an emoji was involved — a cactus, oddly enough), then his GPS led him to a campsite that didn’t exist, and now he was hopelessly lost in a forest that definitely shouldn’t exist. Not like this. The trees were far too tall. The fog was far too warm. And he could’ve sworn the moss had a pulse. “This is fine,” he muttered, stepping over a suspiciously glowing mushroom and attempting to sound confident, which made him sound even more like a corporate intern pretending to know how to use Excel. “Totally fine. Just a highly immersive hiking trail. No biggie. That squirrel probably wasn’t carrying a dagger.” Meanwhile, Tabitha watched from the high boughs of a bent yew tree, stretched languidly like a striped shadow of judgment. She had toyed with the idea of letting the forest swallow him — as it had so many disappointing poets and flat-earthers — but there was something about this particular man-child that amused her. The way he flinched at leaves. The way he cursed under his breath like someone who thought swear words should be rationed. The way he kept muttering apologies to trees as if they were emotionally sensitive. He was, in a word, delicious. “Let’s see how you do with breadcrumbs,” she whispered, and flicked her fingers toward the trail ahead. Instantly, a path of mushrooms bloomed in a perfect spiral, glowing faintly and releasing just enough hallucinogenic spore to make his vision shimmer. He paused, blinked twice, and then laughed. “Cool. Bioluminescent funghi. Totally not ominous.” He stepped onto the path. Tabitha grinned. “Atta boy.” Deeper and deeper he went, winding through the illusion-rich woods. The air got thicker, dreamier. He passed a stone fountain that sang Broadway show tunes. A floating teacup offered him honey. A large snail wearing a monocle hissed, “Don’t trust the ferns.” Wesley, poor soul, thanked it earnestly and saluted. By the time he reached the clearing, he was half-hallucinating and entirely enchanted. Before him stood a glade of red-capped mushrooms, all silent, all watching. And in the center? The biggest, boldest toadstool of them all. Vacant. Like a throne missing its queen. “I feel like I’m being lured,” he said aloud. “Oh, you are,” came the voice. Smooth as cream, sharp as claws. Wesley spun around — and there she was. Tabitha emerged from the trees with the casual grace of someone who had definitely been stalking you and was 100% proud of it. Her fur shimmered with gold-tipped twilight, her ears twitching with smug superiority. And those eyes… twin portals of cosmic mischief. She stopped just close enough to be unsettling, one clawed finger tapping her thigh with theatrical flair. “So,” she purred, “do you always follow glowing fungus into mysterious glades, or is today special?” “Um,” said Wesley, whose brain had just face-planted into a puddle of hormones and terror. “I… well… the mushrooms—” “—You obeyed a fungal breadcrumb trail like a Disney side character.” She circled him now, slow and measured. “Bold. Stupid. Probably repressed. But bold.” Wesley tried not to turn his head as she passed behind him, tail curling toward his shoulder. “What are you?” he managed. She paused. “Oh, honey. If I had a mushroom for every man who’s asked me that...” She flicked a single claw and a small spore cloud poofed into the air. “But let’s pretend you’re new and unspoiled. Let’s start with names. You can call me Tabitha.” “Is that your real name?” She squinted. “Did you just ask a shapeshifting forest predator for her government name?” Wesley immediately regretted his life choices. “Look,” he said, holding up his hands, “I think I took a wrong turn. I’m not… I mean, I don’t want any trouble. I just want to get out of here and maybe call an Uber?” “Darling,” Tabitha said, stepping closer, “you walked into an enchanted forest with GPS, AirPods, and anxiety. You didn’t take a wrong turn. You got chosen.” “Chosen for what?” She leaned in, her nose almost brushing his. Her voice dropped to a whisper: “That’s the mystery.” And then she was gone. Vanished. Not vanished like "ran into the woods" — vanished like poof, snap, smoke-ringed drama. Only a faint pawprint of golden dust remained where she had stood. Wesley stood in the clearing, alone, heartbeat in his ears, wondering if he’d imagined it all. Behind him, the toadstools giggled softly. Not with mouths — that would be ridiculous — but with spores. Invisible, snickering spores. He sat down on the edge of the mushroom throne and sighed. Somewhere, an owl hooted the opening chords to "Careless Whisper." This night was getting weird. And it was far from over. The Claw and the Contract Wesley didn’t sleep that night. Not because of fear — though the tree that kept softly whispering “snacc” in his direction wasn’t helping — but because he couldn’t shake her. The feline silhouette. The velvet sarcasm. The way she had looked at him like a bored librarian eyeing a misfiled romance novel. It wasn’t love. Hell, it wasn’t even lust. It was worse. It was curiosity. He had the distinct sense that he had been catalogued. Weighed. Possibly licked. And that the forest was just waiting to see what he'd do next. Spores floated like lazy fireflies. Somewhere nearby, a pair of mushrooms slow-danced to swing jazz. He had tried walking in a straight line for an hour. The result? He ended up exactly where he started — at the toadstool throne. And it was warm. That was the worst part. It remembered her. “Alright,” he muttered at the moss. “I give up. Forest 1, Wesley 0.” “Technically, I’m the forest’s MVP,” purred a familiar voice, “but I’ll accept the compliment.” She was lounging on a low branch now, upside-down, tail swaying lazily, cleavage unapologetic. The picture of chaos in repose. He didn’t scream. He had passed the scream phase hours ago and was now deep into deadpan resignation. “You’re messing with me,” he said. “Of course,” she said brightly, flipping down and landing on all fours like a sin in motion. “But I mess with everyone. The trick is knowing why.” He frowned. “You said I was chosen.” “I did. And you are. Chosen to make a choice.” She circled him again, but slower now. Less predatory, more... performative. “You’re not the first to stumble in here. Most don’t make it past the mushrooms. You did. That says something.” “That I’m gullible?” “That you’re curious. Curious people are dangerous. They either burn down systems or die spectacularly trying.” “And what if I just want to go home?” She stopped. Tilted her head. “Then I’ll walk you to the edge of the woods myself.” “Really?” “No,” she said flatly. “This forest eats GPS signals and barfs up metaphors. You’re not leaving until you hear the offer.” “The what now?” She clapped her clawed hands. Sparks flew. A scroll of bark and golden moss appeared in mid-air and rolled open with an audible pop. The ink glowed. “One wish,” she said. “Forest rules. You made it to the throne. You met the guardian. That’s me, by the way, in case you’re still catching up. So you get a wish.” Wesley looked at the scroll. “There’s fine print.” “Of course there’s fine print. What do you think this is, Disneyland?” “What’s the catch?” “Well, you could wish for money. But the forest doesn’t understand taxes. You could wish for love, but it’ll probably come in the form of a dangerously codependent kelpie. Or,” she said, stretching lazily, “you could wish for what you really want.” “And what’s that?” She was behind him now, chin on his shoulder. “Adventure. Mystery. Something real in a world where everything feels like it’s been run through a content filter and sold back to you in an ad.” He turned. Met her gaze. “Is that what this is to you? A job?” She blinked. For the first time, her mask cracked, just a little. “It’s what I was made for.” “That sounds lonely.” She growled low in her throat. “Don’t human me, Wes. I’ll vomit on your shoes.” “I’m just saying... maybe you don’t have to be alone in this forest. Maybe you want someone to choose you for once.” Silence. Then: “Say that again and I’ll make you mate with a talking fox for eternity.” “You didn’t say no.” She stared at him. Eyes narrowed. “Make your wish.” He reached out and touched the scroll. His voice steady. “I wish to know the truth about this forest — and about you.” The scroll burst into flame. The trees leaned in. The wind held its breath. Tabitha didn’t move. Her pupils shrank to slits. “You... idiot. You could’ve had gold. Immortality. Threesomes with dryads. And you picked me?” He shrugged. “You’re more interesting.” She pounced. Not like before. This wasn’t a predator striking — it was something more like gravity. She landed on him, claws out but careful, breath hot against his cheek. “You don’t know what you’ve done,” she whispered. “You’ve bound yourself to the woods. To me.” “I’ll take my chances.” “You’re mine now, Wes.” “I figured.” And as the forest exploded into golden light and laughter, the trees dancing, the mushrooms whistling, and the path finally revealing itself — Tabitha kissed him with a purr and a growl. The woods had chosen him back.     If you're now emotionally bonded to Tabitha and itching to take a piece of her world home, you're in luck. "Pounce of the Poison Cap" is available as a gallery-quality canvas print or a framed wall piece to bring that woodland sass into your lair. Want to cozy up with a purring mystery? There's a super soft fleece blanket that'll make you feel wrapped in forest magic. Prefer something interactive? Try the jigsaw puzzle version—because nothing says “chaotic bonding ritual” like 500 tiny pieces of cat and fungus. Or, jot down your own mischievous adventures in the spiral notebook edition, perfect for spells, secrets, or surprisingly deep thoughts about talking snails.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Ribbit in Bloom

The Blooming Problem Floberto was not your average frog. For starters, he hated mud. Absolutely despised it. Said it squelched between his toes in a way that felt “improper.” He preferred things clean, colorful, and dramatically fragrant. While the other frogs were happily ribbiting under lily pads, Floberto dreamed of finer things—like rose petals, rainwater champagne, and just once, being serenaded by a jazz quartet during a thunderstorm. His dreams were a constant source of eye-rolls among his pondmates. “You can’t be serious, Floberto,” hissed Grelch, a grumpy old bullfrog with a croak like a flat tire. “Roses? They have thorns, you idiot.” But Floberto didn’t care. He was determined to find a bloom that matched his... ambiance. So one dew-drenched morning, he leapt from the pond’s edge and set off into the Great Garden Beyond. Legends said it was ruled by a monarch named Maribelle the Cat, who once ate a squirrel simply for looking too nervous. Floberto, with all the swagger of a frog who moisturized, was undeterred. Hours passed, and he hopped past fields of forget-me-nots, ducked under hydrangeas, and narrowly avoided becoming a bee’s accidental booty call inside a tulip. He was about to give up, mid-hop, when he smelled it. That perfume. Spicy, citrusy, the kind of smell that said, “Yes, darling, I am a bit much.” It was there—gleaming in the morning sun like a royal summons. A rose. But not just any rose. This one was massive, with petals like velvet dipped in sunset, unfurling in warm spirals of amber, gold, and just a hint of menace. She looked dangerous and fabulous. Just like Floberto liked his romantic prospects. Without hesitation, he leapt into the center, nestling himself deep in the bloom’s luxurious folds. And just like that, he vanished. From the outside, you couldn’t see him at all. It was as though the rose had swallowed him whole in an act of floral flirtation. From inside, Floberto grinned. “Finally,” he crooned, “a throne worthy of my thighs.” Unfortunately, what he didn’t know was that this rose wasn’t just a flower. It was enchanted. And not in a sweet, Disney sort of way. More like “cursed by a flirtatious horticulturist with trust issues.” The moment Floberto adjusted his bottom on a particularly plump petal, the rose shuddered. Vines curled inward. Pollen shimmered like glitter caught in a spell. And with a final burp of magical energy, Floberto the Frog was fused with the flower in a way that no amphibian therapist would ever be trained to explain. He blinked. His legs were still there. His froggy features, intact. But so were the petals, now a part of him—wrapped over his shoulders like a cape, blooming out of his back like wings, and curling around his head like a fashion-forward bonnet made by a deranged florist with dreams of Paris. “Okay,” he said to the sky. “This is not a problem. This is branding.” Somewhere in the hedges, a squirrel watching the whole thing dropped its acorn and whispered, “What the actual frog...” Crowned in Sass, Drenched in Destiny Now, some frogs might panic when they find themselves fused with an enchanted flower. Some might scream, hop uncontrollably in a flurry of pollen, or launch into frantic ribbits while demanding an audience with the nearest wizard. Not Floberto. Oh no. He adjusted his petal-collar, gave his shoulders a smug little shake to test the bounce of his newly acquired floral frill, and declared, “I am officially stunning.” After a brief moment of self-admiration and two more just for safety, Floberto did what any self-respecting frog-flower chimera with a flair for the dramatic would do: he struck a pose and waited to be discovered. Which, as fate and garden politics would have it, didn’t take long. Enter: Maribelle the Cat. Now, Maribelle wasn’t your average backyard feline. She wasn’t here for belly rubs and laser dots. No, she was the self-appointed Queen of the Garden—a sleek, smoky-gray tabby with golden eyes and a penchant for biting the heads off garden gnomes. Legend said she once held an entire standoff with a hawk and won with nothing but a sarcastic yawn and a claw swipe to the face. Maribelle didn’t rule the garden. She curated it. She edited it. Anything that didn’t suit her aesthetic was peed on or buried. So when whispers reached her twitchy ears that something “weird and colorful” was blooming in the west patch without her permission, she padded over with the slow, deliberate menace of someone who had never once been told ‘no.’ She arrived in a rustle of leaves and contempt, her tail high, her pupils narrowed like judgmental slits. When she saw Floberto—perched in his glorious rose-throne, all eyes and petals and smug self-satisfaction—she stopped. Blinked. Sat down with a thud. “What in the organic, compostable hell are you?” she drawled. Floberto, unbothered and blooming, tilted his head. “I am evolution, darling.” Maribelle sniffed. “You look like a salad bar with an identity crisis.” “Compliment accepted.” The cat’s tail flicked. “You’re not supposed to be here. This is my garden. I approve the flora. I nap beneath the ferns and occasionally murder voles under the moonlight. You’re... chaos.” Floberto gave her a slow blink that rivaled any feline. “I am art. I am nature. I am the drama.” “You’re a frog in a flower.” “I am a floral icon and I demand recognition.” Maribelle sneezed in his direction, then began licking her paw aggressively, as if washing away the very concept of his presence. “The aphids are going to unionize over this.” But as she licked and side-eyed him, something peculiar began to happen. Bees hovered near Floberto but didn’t sting. The winds shifted softly around him. Even the usually snobby tulips bent ever so slightly in his direction. The entire garden, it seemed, was paying attention. “This isn’t just enchantment,” Maribelle muttered. “This is social disruption.” She paced in a slow circle around Floberto’s rose, tail twitching like a WiFi signal in a thunderstorm. “You’ve fused plant and animal. You’ve blurred the ecosystemic binary. You’ve created something… unsettlingly stylish.” Floberto let out a demure croak. “Thank you. It’s not easy to be groundbreaking and moist at the same time.” And that’s when it happened. The change. The first true moment of transformation—not just of body, but of status. A caterpillar, previously known in the garden for his severe anxiety and refusal to molt, climbed shakily up a daisy stalk and squeaked out, “I like it.” Then a hummingbird zipped by, paused mid-air, and murmured, “Sick drip, my guy.” And then—then—a dandelion puffed itself up and whispered on the breeze: “Icon.” Maribelle stood stunned. For the first time since she’d declared herself queen (following a particularly dramatic standoff with a weed whacker), something had shifted in the power structure of the garden. Floberto hadn’t just inserted himself into her kingdom—he had begun to redefine it. “Fine,” she growled. “You want recognition? You’ll get it. Tomorrow, we hold the Garden Assembly. And if the creatures vote to keep your fancy froggy behind here... I’ll allow it. But if they don’t—if they choose order over petal-draped madness—I’ll personally punt you back into the mud, no matter how dewy your couture is.” Floberto smirked, utterly unthreatened. “Very well. I shall prepare my speech. And my shoulders. They require shimmer.” That night, Floberto didn’t sleep. Partially because the rose tickled when he inhaled too deeply, but mostly because he was planning. His speech would need to be powerful. Transformational. He needed to speak to the soul of every underappreciated weed, every overlooked earthworm, every moth who ever wanted to be a butterfly but feared the judgment of dahlias. He would become the symbol of blooming where you were defiantly not planted. And if he had to wear a floral cape and flirt with a cranky cat queen to do it, so be it. “Let the garden try to contain me,” he whispered, striking a dramatic silhouette against the moonlit rose. “Let them bloom with me... or get left in the compost pile of irrelevance.” The Assembly of Bloom and Doom Morning arrived not with birdsong, but with murmurs. Whispered pollen gossip. The buzz of gossiping bees. A nervous rustling of leaves that said, “Something is happening, and we might need snacks.” Maribelle had summoned every living thing in the garden—excluding the mole, who refused to surface without a lawyer. From the regal daffodils to the existentially confused ants, all came to the Great Garden Assembly, held (somewhat inconveniently) beneath the raspberry trellis, which was known for its uneven lighting and thorn-related lawsuits. Maribelle perched atop a rock shaped like an accidental phallus and addressed the crowd with all the weary condescension of a monarch who had been asked to host a talent show against her will. “Creatures of the garden,” she yawned, “we are gathered today to determine whether this... amphibious flower accident stays among us, or is expelled for crimes against aesthetic continuity.” Floberto cleared his throat—or, more precisely, croaked with confidence—and leapt onto a dahlia podium someone had sneakily erected with twine and optimism. His petals gleamed. His eyes shone with wet conviction. And, as if nature itself were cosigning his vibe, a single butterfly landed on his petal-shoulder like a biodegradable mic drop. “Fellow photosynthesizers and pollinators,” he began, “I come not to divide this garden, but to bloom with reckless intent.” Gasps rippled. A dandelion fainted. Somewhere in the back, a pine beetle clapped and immediately felt self-conscious. “You see,” he continued, pacing in slow, regal hops, “we have been told we must be either plant or animal. We must choose dirt or dew. Legs or leaves. But what if I told you that we could be both? That we could leap and lounge in sunlight. That we could ribbit while smelling fantastic.” The crowd was rapt. Even the cucumbers, normally disinterested in political anything, leaned forward. “I was not born into a rose. I became one. By choice. By accident. By enchantment. Who knows? But in doing so, I became more than the sum of my slime.” From the dais, Maribelle squinted. “Is this... performance poetry?” “It’s a manifesto,” hissed a monarch butterfly, who once went to a workshop in Brooklyn and wouldn’t shut up about it. Floberto flared his petals and took a deep breath. “There are creatures here who’ve never known what it means to feel seen. The aphids who dance ballet in secret. The slug who writes romance novels under a pseudonym. The worm with a crippling fear of tunnels. I am here for them.” “And also,” he added, “because I look fabulous and you can’t stop looking at me.” A chorus of high-pitched squeals erupted from a cluster of teenage mushrooms. A squirrel clutched his chest. A ladybug whispered, “Is it possible to be... into this?” Then, from the back, came a voice—slow, sticky, and devastatingly sincere. It was Gregory the Snail, infamous for his questionable love poems and trail-based calligraphy. “He made me feel... pollenated... in my soul.” The crowd broke into chaos. Vines writhed with excitement. Bees accidentally high-fived in midair. A mole did surface—but only to declare, “I’m bisexual and this frog makes me believe in reincarnation.” Maribelle hissed for silence, but it was too late. A revolution had begun. Not of swords, nor claws—but of identity. Of glamour. Of unapologetic self-expression by way of botanical mutation. And so it was done. By a landslide vote—three grubs abstained, citing “confusion”—Floberto was not only permitted to stay, but was crowned the first-ever Ambassador of Floral Weirdness and Unapologetic Vibes. Maribelle, with all the grace she could muster, approached him. “Well played,” she muttered, licking one paw and gently adjusting a petal. “You’re still unbearable, but you’re... effective.” Floberto bowed. “Thank you, your majesty. I’m like mildew—impossible to ignore, and occasionally poetic.” And so, the garden changed. Just a little. Just enough. New blooms began to sprout in strange shapes. The caterpillar finally molted and became a butterfly with bisexual lighting on his wings. The slug published his novel under the name “Velvet Wiggle.” And Maribelle, although she’d never admit it, began sleeping under the rosebush where Floberto lived—just close enough to hear his nightly affirmations. “I am moist. I am magnificent. I am enough.” And in the moonlight, the garden whispered back... “Ribbit.”     Feeling enchanted by Floberto’s floral fabulousness? Bring the sass and splendor of “Ribbit in Bloom” into your world with a variety of fine art products designed to bloom on your wall—or your coffee table. Whether you're vibing with a framed print that turns heads, a sleek metal print with attitude, or a luxe acrylic print that sparkles with drama—Floberto’s got you covered. For those who prefer a more interactive experience, try the jigsaw puzzle (it's like frog-fueled therapy). Or send a smirk by mail with a sassy greeting card. However you bloom, bloom boldly.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Whirlwind of Wings and Wonder

The Feral Bloomchild of Snapdragon Row There was a ruckus in the garden again. Not the usual kind—the bumblebee karaoke, the tulip gossip circles, or the occasional dueling squirrels—no, this was a glitterstorm of chaos. And at the eye of the pastel-hued hurricane twirled a blur of hot-pink curls, stompy boots, and an attitude that didn’t care for bedtime, rules, or socks with proper elastic. Her name? Pippa Petalwhip. Age: six-and-three-quarters fairy cycles. Status: wildly unsupervised. Her hair had the kind of electric fuchsia fluff that defied combs, bows, and the very laws of wind resistance. She wore a flower crown like a royal threat. Her wings were not so much delicate as they were expressive—flapping in agitation when scolded, flaring dramatically during tantrums, and occasionally slapping the neighbor’s roses just because they were smug. Pippa was, as her grandmother said through gritted teeth, “a whole basket of trouble with glitter for garnish.” She lived in the Wigglyglade Garden District—a cozy realm behind a row of hydrangeas, between the old garden gnome with the mug problem and a clump of very judgy dandelions. There, Pippa ruled with pink boots of fury and a heart full of nonsense. On this particularly sun-sloshed day, she had declared herself “Queen of the Blustery Blossoms” and was organizing a floral parade. She was the only participant. She marched alone. She blew her kazoo like a battle horn, her wings shimmering in the light, flinging pollen like confetti. The peonies tried to stand upright and dignified but quivered slightly with every stomp of her boots. “Make way for Majesty!” she bellowed, nearly tripping over a drowsy caterpillar. Her overalls—pink, pocketed, and patched with questionable embroidery—billowed with each pirouette. A single sock had vanished mid-morning and was presumed lost to the hedgehog mafia. The remaining one had given up trying to stay up and bunched halfway around her ankle, clinging for dear life. And her boots? Oh, they were weapons of mass adorableness, clomping and clunking like a mischievous marching band with rhythm issues. Pippa was on a mission today. Rumor had it that an elder fairy (ancient, probably thirty or so) had once hidden a magical whoopstick somewhere near the rhubarb patch. A whoopstick, in fairy terms, was a sacred item capable of producing endless giggles, unpredictable flatulence spells, and the ability to turn slugs into macarons. Obviously, it needed to be found immediately. Armed with a magnifying acorn, a garden fork named Stabby, and two marshmallows for “emergency negotiations,” Pippa began her quest. Her wings hummed with anticipation, her boots stomped with determination, and the daisies whispered to each other in nervous suspense. “Oh no,” one sighed. “She’s going into the tulip zone. They’re… delicate.” Indeed, the tulips were notoriously uptight. They formed neat lines, voted on petal arrangements, and held HOA meetings about hummingbird noise. As Pippa bounded through them with all the grace of a cannonball in a tutu, a shocked gasp echoed through the stems. “MISS PETALWHIP!” shrieked Madame Tulipia, the head bloom. “This is a neighborhood, not a racetrack for glitter hooligans!” Pippa grinned with the unrepentant joy of a girl who knew very well she had diplomatic immunity due to being outrageously adorable. “I’m on a royal mission,” she declared. “By decree of me!” “Oh sweet saplings,” groaned the lavender. “She’s got a decree again.” But nothing could stop her—not rules, not tulips, not even the tiny swarm of angry gnats that mistook her for a floral food truck. With a twirl, a hoot, and a kazoo blast that startled a passing snail into a backflip, Pippa disappeared into the tall grass, off to chase magic, mayhem, and possibly a snack. She had no map, no plan, and absolutely no idea what she was doing. But she had her boots. And her crown. And a heart full of thunderous wonder. And that, dear reader, was enough. Of Whoopsticks, Wiggly Wormlords, and the Unbearable Formality of Tulips Pippa Petalwhip was now deep into the wilds of the garden borderland, beyond the neatly trimmed basil republic and far past the snail toll-booth (which she had skipped, promising to “pay with exposure”). Her mission to find the mythical whoopstick had taken her into territories charted only in crayon maps and whispered about by giggling mushrooms with questionable motives. The first true obstacle appeared not long after a minor detour through the Mossy Hollows, where she’d mistaken a sleeping hedgehog for a pebble beanbag and was forcibly ejected by its indignant butt-wiggle. Pippa brushed herself off, extracted a burr from her underpants, and marched straight into the Earthworm Underground. The worms, it must be said, were not ready for her. “You can’t just barge in,” sputtered a flustered diplomat-worm wearing a monocle fashioned from a dewdrop ring. “This is a closed council meeting of the Wormlords!” “I’m royalty,” Pippa explained with the utmost sincerity. “Behold my crown. It was woven by bees and regret.” “It’s made of daisies and a Fruit Loop,” muttered another worm. Unbothered, Pippa plopped herself down—boots first—on a mossy stone and began unwrapping a cheese stick. “Look, I’m just passing through. I’m hunting the legendary Whoopstick of Giggleglen. Supposed to be somewhere near the rhubarb. Or possibly the compost pile. Directions were vague. Also, I'm slightly lost.” The worms exchanged squishy glances. “You mean the ancient fart-stick?” whispered one, reverently. “It sings!” gasped another. “And glows! And once caused a raccoon to laugh itself into a tree stump!” “It does fart jokes?” Pippa lit up like a bottle rocket in pigtails. “I must have it.” “There are trials,” intoned the headworm, dramatically coiling himself into the shape of a scroll. “Tests of heart, courage, and burrowing etiquette.” Pippa narrowed her eyes. “I can recite the Sacred Rhyme of the Garden Realms,” she offered. “You may proceed,” said the worm, not entirely sure if that was a real thing or not. And so she chanted, with full dramatic flair: “Basil is bossy, thyme’s always late,Dandelions gossip and lettuce debates.The worms are squiggly and tulips uptight—But I’ve got pink boots and I’m ready to fight!” There was a moment of stunned silence, followed by slow, squishy clapping. “Honestly,” the worm whispered, “that kind of slapped.” And with that, they pointed her toward the secret tunnel, guarded by a single very tired centipede who let her through with a shrug and a juice box. Onward she traveled, muttering to herself, “I bet I’m the only fairy on this side of the compost pile with street cred and a kazoo.”     Meanwhile, back in Tuliptown, the floral neighborhood association was having a full-blown meltdown. Madame Tulipia paced in furious spirals, her petals wilting with stress. “We must send a delegation,” she sniffed. “That child is a hazard. A—perky menace!” The daffodils nodded sagely, the violets wept in terror, and a lone bachelor sunflower suggested, “Or we could just... let her be?” “You’re single,” Tulipia snapped, “your opinion is invalid.” And so it was that they formed a committee, as all bureaucratic nightmares do, and dispatched a scouting party of three slightly reluctant snapdragons to follow the trail of glitter and kazoo crumbs.     Pippa, meanwhile, emerged into the Compost Wastes—a region feared by all for its pungent ambiance and rogue banana peels. It smelled like existential dread and potato peels. But there, shimmering faintly beneath a half-eaten fig and a suspiciously clean spoon, lay the object of her quest: The Whoopstick. It was magnificent. A twisted wand of oak and sassafras, carved with glyphs in an ancient and suspiciously childish script. The handle was wrapped in glitter tape. It hummed with suppressed glee and questionable magic. “Hark!” Pippa whispered, licking a finger and holding it to the air. “The winds of whimsy blow true.” She reached out, dramatic as a soap opera unicorn, and grasped the Whoopstick. It farted. Loudly. The resulting soundwave knocked a crow out of a tree, turned a beetle inside out (harmlessly), and made Pippa snort so hard she tripped over her own boot. “YEEEEESSSS!!!” she howled in glee, waving it above her head like she was summoning the gods of mischief and flatulence. That was when the snapdragons found her, standing atop a mound of compost, crowned in flowers, kazoo between her teeth, and brandishing a mystical fartstick like a warrior of joy. “Oh gods,” one muttered. “She’s activated it.” The others ran. But Pippa? She twirled, laughed, and blasted them with a cloud of sparkling raspberry-scented whoop. “THE WHIRLWIND IS RISEN!” she cried. “FEAR ME AND MY FLORAL WRATH!” And thus began the Great Garden Giggle Uprising of the 11:15 AM Timeslot, led by a tiny, chaotic fairy with unbrushed hair, impractical boots, and the sheer audacity of wonder. Glitter Rebellions, Kazoo Diplomacy, and the Unmaking of the Orderly Bloom The aftermath of Pippa’s acquisition of the Whoopstick was nothing short of botanical pandemonium. As she stomped, twirled, and kazooed her way out of the compost heap like a victorious warlord of whimsy, the garden reeled. The snapdragons retreated with tales of horror: “She farted in iambic pentameter!” one cried. “There was glitter! Glitter in my ears!” sobbed another. Madame Tulipia was already composing a list of sanctions: no nectar privileges, a probationary peony patrol, and possibly even a cease-and-desist scroll written in scented ink. But Pippa did not care. She had a mission now—an even grander one. The Whoopstick pulsed with mischief and chaotic potential, and her boots were practically vibrating with anticipation. The whispers of the wind spoke of a place long forbidden, long feared, long overdue for a visit from someone with zero impulse control: The Council of Perennials. Located deep beneath the Old Oak Grove, the Council was made up of ancient blooms—stately chrysanthemums, wise old lilies, and a rose with a monocle so tight it had a permanent dent in its petal. They were the garden’s ruling order, and Pippa had... well, let’s call it a “complicated” relationship with them. They believed in quiet. In neatness. In seasonal timetables. And above all else, they believed strongly that kazoos were not instruments of diplomacy. Pippa planned to change that.     She arrived in full regalia: flower crown now upgraded with two gum wrappers and a snail shell, overalls patched with duct tape art, wings pre-fluffed, and cheeks smeared in dandelion paint like war stripes. In one hand she held the Whoopstick; in the other, a jam sandwich she had been meaning to eat since yesterday. “I come,” she declared, startling the entire mushroom council on the way in, “to establish a new Fairy Accord!” “Young lady,” boomed Elder Rosemont with the pained patience of a tulip on hold with customer service, “this is a place of order. You are not on the agenda.” “Then I’m rewriting the agenda,” Pippa chirped. “With my sparkly wand of doom.” Gasps. Actual fainting. A carnation had to be resuscitated with smelling moss. “What exactly do you propose?” Elder Lily sighed, half-expecting the answer to involve glitter, socks, or interpretive dance. “I demand a Joy Amendment,” Pippa said, arms akimbo, boot firmly planted on a toadstool podium. “Clause One: All fairies are permitted at least one loud kazoo solo per day. Clause Two: Compost slides will be built in every sector. Clause Three: No flower may complain about pollen farts without medical documentation.” There was silence. Then muttering. Then, from the back, a shaky old daisy cleared its throat and said, “Honestly… it’s not the worst proposal we’ve heard this season.” The vote was called. Pippa campaigned aggressively by offering bribes of juice boxes and knock-knock jokes. The Snapdragons, once her pursuers, now her converted disciples, voted in favor after being allowed to test-drive the Whoopstick’s “rude noise” setting. It passed. With pomp, circumstance, and a surprise kazoo flash mob (organized via mushroom whisper network), the Joy Amendment was ratified. Pippa was declared Ambassador of Whimsy and granted a ceremonial sash made entirely of recycled birthday ribbons and suspiciously glittery lint. But the greatest honor came when Elder Chrysanthemum, known for being so old she remembered when fairies were still hatched from pinecones, approached and smiled gently. “You remind me,” she said, “of what this garden once was. Loud. Bright. Stupidly joyful. Thank you, little whirlwind.” Pippa sniffled. “You’re welcome. Also I may have sat on your teacup. I regret nothing.”    Weeks passed. The garden changed. Spontaneous dance parties broke out among the snap peas. Bees formed a kazoo symphony. Even the tulips, though they would never admit it, began adding a touch of glitter to their petal tips. Pippa ruled not with an iron fist, but with a jelly-stained kazoo, a soft spot for slug races, and a complete disregard for bedtime. Her adventures were catalogued in petal-scrolls and told by firefly light. Children, bugs, and occasionally confused birds gathered to hear tales of the day she tamed the wind with a whoopstick, or the time she rode a rogue toad through the basil district. She still stomped through the peonies. Still scared the daisies. Still made the tulips clutch their pearls. But now, they smiled while scolding. They offered lemonade with their complaints. And when the garden was especially quiet—just before the sun kissed the edge of the marigolds—one might hear a single sound echoing through the glade: A long, proud, farting kazoo note. The anthem of the Bloomchild Queen. The sound of wonder. The Whirlwind lives on.     Bring the magic of “Whirlwind of Wings and Wonder” home with you! Whether you're a daydreamer, a chaos fairy at heart, or just someone who knows the power of a properly timed kazoo solo, you can capture Pippa's enchanted world in vibrant detail. Cozy up with this fleece blanket for storytime snuggles, or turn your space into a whimsical wonderland with a dreamy wall tapestry or colorful canvas print. For those who love a joyful challenge, the jigsaw puzzle brings every petal, boot, and twinkle of mischief to life. Explore the full line of fairy-fabulous goodies at Unfocussed and invite a little whirlwind into your world!

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Girl Who Listened to Owls

The Quiet Between the Wings In a forest untouched by cartographers and unspoiled by time, there was a girl who never spoke. She had not always been silent, but the world had grown so loud that her words got drowned somewhere between the sigh of the wind and the cracks in her mother’s voice. Her name, if she remembered it at all, was buried deep beneath layers of moss and memory. Each morning, she rose with the dew. Bare feet kissed the earth as she wandered beneath towering trees, her copper curls collecting leaves and whispers. She belonged to no one. Not the village that once branded her too strange, too solemn. Not the couple who had left her in that village like a forgotten coat. She belonged only to the stillness of the woods, and to the owls who kept watch in the canopy above. The first owl came to her the day she stopped crying. She had been crouched beside a frozen stream, too tired to grieve, too numb to care, when she heard the rustle of wings. A tawny owl landed silently beside her, its amber eyes unblinking. It did not coo or tilt its head like in the stories. It simply was, as if summoned by grief itself. The girl, for reasons she couldn’t name, held out her wrist—and the owl climbed on like it had always belonged there. They grew up together, the girl and the owl. They never named each other. He brought her the stillness she had craved, and she offered warmth to the nights when the forest howled. Villagers whispered about her. “Witchling,” they said. “Cursed child.” One claimed she turned into an owl herself by moonlight, but no one dared get close enough to prove it. Eventually, the gossip grew stale and faded like the path into the woods. Years passed, marked only by the growth rings in the trees and the new strands of silver in the owl’s feathers. The girl, now nearing womanhood, spoke only in glances and gestures. But to the owl, she gave all her words, every last one she’d never dared to say aloud. He listened. Owls are good at that—listening without interrupting, judging, or fixing. The kind of listening most people forget to practice once they grow up. It was on the eve of the longest night, as the frost clung to the last shivering leaves, that the owl began to fail. His wings no longer lifted him as high. His eyes lost their fire. And the girl—no longer a girl, but something softer and stronger—realized that she would have to prepare for his leaving. But how do you prepare to lose the only creature who ever truly heard you? She built him a nest near the edge of the glade, lined with her coat and bits of yarn she unraveled from her skirts. She fed him berries, warmed his fragile body with her own, and read aloud the stories she’d once scrawled on tree bark. For the first time in years, her voice returned—raspy, unsure, but real. And the owl blinked slowly, his head tucked beneath her chin, as if to say, Keep speaking. Even when I’m gone. On the solstice morning, he did not wake. The girl did not cry. Instead, she sat with him for hours, until the mist thinned and the light broke gently through the trees. And when she finally stood, cradling his body to her chest, the forest felt smaller. Or maybe she had simply grown. She began to walk, her boots stirring the frost-bitten ferns, toward a place she had never dared to go before—the edge of the woods. The Language of Ash and Feather She didn’t bury him. She couldn’t. The idea felt wrong—final in a way that her soul wasn’t ready for. So she burned sage and pine resin in a circle of smooth stones and laid him in the heart of it. When she set the flame, it didn’t crackle or roar. It whispered. It whispered like the rustle of wings in the early morning fog, like a goodbye that sounded suspiciously like “you already know the way.” When the smoke rose, she didn’t watch it go. She turned and walked. There was no trail, only instinct. Past the tree she had once named “Mother” for its bent arms. Past the stone she had bled on once, during a tantrum she never quite forgave herself for. Past the spring where she had imagined drowning, before the owl sat beside her and changed everything by saying nothing. She emerged at the edge of the forest on the third day, barefoot and unblinking. Before her sprawled a field of dead wheat, bent and yellowed from the frost. A lonely dirt road stretched through it like a scar. The village was visible in the distance, all wood smoke and pale rooftops. She hesitated—not out of fear, but because her heart had grown so used to silence it wasn’t sure how to beat among noise again. The first person she met was a boy. Not a boy in the way children are—this one was all calluses and smoke-stained teeth, wearing a cap that no longer fit and a shirt that probably had never fit to begin with. He was piling wood beside the road. She said nothing. He looked up. His eyes widened as if he’d seen a ghost. “You’re the owl girl,” he said, and she flinched. She nodded. He tilted his head and squinted like he was trying to see her properly for the first time. “They said you ate squirrels raw. That your eyes glowed at night.” He said it like he half believed it, half hoped it. “I listened,” she said. Her voice startled even her. It cracked like thawing ice. He blinked. “What?” She stepped forward. “That’s all. I listened.” He opened his mouth to ask more, but she kept walking. She wasn’t ready to be examined like a relic. Not yet. But the words had been spoken, and something inside her loosened—a knot that had waited too long to unravel. She stayed at the edge of the village that winter, in a shack that had once housed bees and now housed drafty air and ghosts of honey. She fixed it up with twine, bone, bark, and a rhythm that echoed in her spine. People brought her things, mostly in silence: scraps of bread, tattered coats, herbs. No one asked for payment. They just… left them. And she took them. It was a barter of presence. She understood that. Children were the first to draw close. They asked about the owl. She didn’t give them fairy tales. She told them the truth—that he had been quiet and old and soft, and that he had once watched her weep for three straight days without flinching. That sometimes love doesn’t look like comfort. It looks like staying. They didn’t always understand, but they listened, wide-eyed, as if her voice contained something worth keeping. Then came the mothers. Women with bruises that weren’t visible. Women who were tired of their own echoing kitchens. They came under the guise of “just walking by,” and left with tears that surprised them. They brought jars of soup, hand-stitched gloves, dried lavender. One gave her an old book of bird calls. Another, an owl feather she found lodged in her doorframe. Each gift was less about generosity and more about recognition. They didn’t call her witch anymore. They called her “the feather girl” or “the owl’s widow.” Names softened by grief and myth. Spring arrived with a violence that made her ache. Buds burst open like secrets too long held. The air smelled like apology. She planted seeds outside the shack. Not because she needed food, but because she missed watching something grow. One day, a stranger arrived—older, heavy with years and woodsmoke. His name was Tam. He had been a carpenter, once. Now he whittled things he didn’t need, just to remember what it felt like to make something from nothing. He asked if he could fix her door hinge. She nodded. He came back the next day and replaced the entire frame. They didn’t speak much, but there was comfort in his presence. He reminded her of the owl—not in appearance, but in wayness. He took up space gently. It was Tam who finally asked, “Did you love him?” She blinked. “The owl?” He smiled like he already knew the answer. “Yes.” She looked down at her hands. They were covered in dirt and pine resin and tiny scars from sharp seeds. “Yes,” she said. “But not the way people love people. He was… the first place I ever felt known.” Tam nodded. “That counts.” She stared at him, then did something she hadn’t done in years. She touched his shoulder. “You listen, too.” He looked away. “I used to talk too much. Now I know better.” That night, she sat outside and stared at the moon, and for the first time in a long while, didn’t feel like something vital was missing. The owl was gone. But the listening? That remained. In Tam. In the children. In the broken women who brought her nettle tea and sobbed without asking for permission. She realized then that what the owl had taught her wasn’t just how to be still. It was how to be present. To witness. And sometimes, witnessing was the greatest gift you could offer. Sometimes, it was enough to save a life. The wind rustled the trees that night in a way that almost sounded like wings. She didn’t look up. She simply said, “Thank you.” And went to sleep for the first time without dreaming of his weight on her wrist. The Ones Who Stayed Quiet Years passed, as years do—stealthily, like foxes in fog. The forest did not reclaim her, though it waited patiently at her back. It sent birds to visit. It sent strange mushrooms in spring. But she had rooted herself in something new—not people, not walls, but witnessing. The small act of noticing had become her ministry. And eventually, others came who needed to be noticed too. They didn’t arrive with fanfare. They never do. A man who hadn’t spoken since the war showed up one day with cracked boots and eyes that refused to settle. A girl who trembled if someone touched her sleeves brought berries in a paper pouch. A mother whose hands shook so badly she could no longer sew brought only her silence—and it was enough. The girl—now a woman, though no calendar had told her when the shift occurred—opened her space to them. Not like a priestess. Not like a healer. Simply like someone who had once sat in the cold long enough to appreciate company that didn’t ask too many questions. They built benches together from old fence posts. They grew herbs that didn’t sell in markets but were good for heartbreak, digestion, and memory. They learned to leave space in conversations for breath, for fear, for stories that had no tidy arc. They did not call it therapy. They called it “sitting.” Sometimes, “watching the wind.” Each night, she lit a candle in her window. Not to summon, but to say, “Someone is still here.” Some nights, no one came. Some nights, someone did. A widow who’d never remarried. A shepherd boy who saw ghosts. A woodcutter who couldn’t read but who carved owls from every fallen branch. She never taught them how to speak. She taught them how to listen. And slowly, in the rhythm of moss and moonlight, they learned to listen to themselves again. It was not fast work. Healing never is. It is not a firework but a candle—a slow burn that flickers, falters, and refuses to be rushed. One day, she found herself teaching a child how to sit still. The child had too many questions and even more twitches. She didn’t silence them. She simply sat beside them and spoke the owl’s name—the one she had never spoken before. “Kess,” she said softly, like a prayer, like an offering. The child paused. “What’s that mean?” She smiled. “Everything I didn’t say. Everything he already knew.” The child blinked, uncertain. But they didn’t ask again. They listened. And the woman knew then that the owl’s work—their work—was not done. It had only changed shape. Grown legs. Learned to walk on new soil. Years later, long after her hair silvered and her fingers bent like tree roots, she sat again beneath the tree she had once named “Mother.” It had grown hollow at the base, but strong above. A perfect metaphor, she thought. You can lose your core and still keep reaching for light. The villagers still whispered about her, but now with reverence. “She’s the one who listens,” they said. “Go to her if the noise gets too loud.” Her name was etched in no book. No altar bore her likeness. But in the hush between wind and water, in the eyes of quiet people who had once felt broken—she was known. One autumn, when the leaves fell faster than she could count them, she woke up and knew it was time. Not of death. But of return. She left a note. Not in ink, but in stones along the path. A line of feathers on the doorstep. A single candle flickering in daylight. The signs were enough. They found her coat folded on the bench. Her boots neatly side by side. Her walking stick rested against the tree as if waiting for someone else to need it. But she? She was gone. No struggle. No storm. Just absence—the kind that feels more like presence turned sideways. And though no one saw them, those who knew how to look swore they caught sight of a tawny owl circling high above the trees. Not flying alone. Some souls find their way back home not by noise, but by stillness. And the forest listened.     Take Her Story Home If the stillness of her journey touched your heart, you can carry a piece of it with you. We've transformed The Girl Who Listened to Owls into a collection of beautiful, high-quality products that honor the quiet strength of her story. Let the tale continue in your space — whether on your wall, in your hands, or wrapped gently around your shoulders. ✨ Acrylic Print – A striking, luminous display of the image in rich detail 🌲 Wood Print – For a natural, rustic finish as timeless as the tale 🧩 Jigsaw Puzzle – Piece together her journey, one quiet moment at a time 🦉 Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in warmth, story, and serenity All available now at shop.unfocussed.com.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Garden of Devotion

In a tiny, vine-wrapped village just past the last mushroom on the left, nestled somewhere between “What the heck was that?” and “Did that bush just wink at me?”, lived a rather suspiciously adorable pair of gnomes. Barnaby and Glimmer. If their names sound like the start of a children’s fable, I assure you—this is not that. These two were infamous for turning fairy-ring brunches into bottomless mimosa brawls and once got banned from the local pixie spa for "inappropriate glitter usage." But even still, they were madly, magically, annoyingly in love. Now, Glimmer had eyes like blueberry moonshine and a knack for growing flowers that made other gnomes weep softly into their compost piles. Barnaby, on the other hand, had a beard so magnificent it had its own zip code and the kind of smirk that could stir up trouble in a monastery. He wore his pointy red hat tilted just far enough to suggest he might know where the bodies were buried. (Spoiler: it was just a mole infestation. Probably.) Every evening, like clockwork, they’d waddle through the garden, hand in hand, to “their bench.” Not the one by the radishes (too damp). Not the one near the troll hedge (don’t ask). The one surrounded by heart-shaped lanterns, flanked by suspiciously symmetrical toadstools, and often covered in suspiciously non-native flower petals. They swore they didn’t stage it for aesthetic. (They absolutely did.) On this particular evening, Glimmer wore a sapphire-blue dress with enough lace to suffocate a fairy. Her hat brim overflowed with fresh peonies, dahlias, and one fake flower she snuck in just to mess with Barnaby. He hadn’t noticed yet. His hat, meanwhile, had been upgraded with climbing vines that spelled “Sexy Beast” if you tilted your head just right and squinted. Love was in full bloom, and so were their egos. “You know,” Barnaby murmured as they plopped down on the bench, “one day we’ll be legends. Gnomekind will sing ballads about how stunningly attractive and humble we were.” “Mmm,” Glimmer purred, resting her hand in his. “Especially the humble part.” “That’s the spirit,” he grinned. “They’ll say, ‘Ah yes, Barnaby the Bold, Glimmer the Glorious—those two caused more scandal than a squirrel in a sunflower patch.’” Glimmer chuckled, nudging him with her knee. “Only because you insisted on that skinny-dipping incident in the birdbath. We’re still banned from the finch sanctuary.” “Totally worth it,” Barnaby whispered, kissing her hand with the exaggerated flair of someone who had clearly practiced in front of a mirror. “Shall we cause a little more mischief tonight, my petal of chaos?” “Oh, absolutely,” Glimmer whispered back. “But first, let’s sit here and look devastatingly in love while the fireflies get ideas.” And so they did, two fabulously overdressed garden delinquents, bathed in the warm glow of devotion and mild narcissism, plotting whatever mayhem came next with a twinkle in their eyes and matching socks. (A first, by the way. She finally labeled his drawer.) The Gnome with the Golden Pants The very next morning, the peaceful hush of the Garden of Devotion was shattered by an unholy sound: Barnaby attempting interpretive dance to the squeaky rhythms of Glimmer’s enchanted wind chimes. Wearing what he claimed were “ceremonial yoga britches,” but were clearly gold lamé leggings three sizes too tight, he wiggled, gyrated, and nearly pulled a hamstring beneath the weeping willow. “I am channeling ancient earth spirits,” he gasped, mid-pelvic-thrust. “You’re channeling a lawsuit,” Glimmer replied flatly, sipping dewberry tea and pretending not to enjoy the show. But she was. Oh, she was. Later that day, Glimmer received a visit from her best friend, Prunella—an aggressively blunt garden witch whose opinions were as sharp as her pruning shears. “Darling,” Prunella said, eyeing Barnaby’s glitter-infused beard from across the yard. “Is he... moulting? Or just molting all over your hydrangeas on purpose?” “It’s performance art,” Glimmer deadpanned. “He’s in his expressive phase.” “Mmm. Yes. Very expressive. I think your begonias just filed a restraining order.” The three of them ended up sitting beneath the Heart Lantern Tree, the same one Barnaby proposed under during a meteor shower that turned out to be an exploding gnome-made cheese wheel experiment gone wrong. Glimmer remembered that night well—mostly the flaming ricotta falling from the sky, and Barnaby declaring it “a sign from the Dairy Gods.” “So,” Prunella said, glancing between them, “you two are still disgusting and in love, I assume?” “Inexplicably,” Barnaby confirmed, licking sugar from his fingers. “We’ve decided to renew our vows.” Glimmer blinked. “We have?” “Yes,” Barnaby said proudly. “Right here in the garden. At sunset. With live music and possibly a fire juggler who owes me a favor from that time with the caterpillar circus.” “You made that up just now,” Glimmer said. “Did I? Or is it fate?” “It’s indigestion, dear.” Still, she found herself charmed. Again. Despite the gold pants. Despite the unrequested vow renewal. Despite the fact he still alphabetized the spice shelf by color, not name, because “cinnamon should feel special.” The planning began immediately. Invitations were scribbled on pressed lily pads. Lanterns were polished until the toads could see their reflections and questioned their life choices. Even the garden bats were recruited to carry mini scrolls, which backfired when half of them ate the paper and fell asleep upside down on Glimmer’s hat rack. Prunella volunteered to officiate (“I’ve got a robe and unresolved rage—I’m qualified”), while the fairy triplets down the lane, known collectively as The Dandelion Debs, offered to sing backup. The trouble came when Barnaby insisted on writing his vows in haiku. Which would have been fine if he didn’t also demand they be whispered dramatically by a wind spirit mid-ceremony. “You want me to summon a literal elemental for your poetic vibes?” Glimmer asked, raising an eyebrow. “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” he said, holding out a single wildflower like a peace offering. “I’ll do the dishes for a week.” “A month. And you reorganize the sock drawer you turned into a snack cavern.” “Done.” As sunset approached, the garden was glowing—soft pinks and oranges filtering through every leafy crevice, fireflies doing a coordinated light show (probably bribed), and the scent of sugared petals heavy in the air. Glimmer walked down the mushroom aisle barefoot, her hair filled with blossoms, her dress catching the breeze like a silk spell. Barnaby waited in his best vest, looking like a cross between a Victorian flirt and a sentient candy apple. His beard had been brushed to shocking perfection, and someone had even woven in tiny twinkling lights. Probably his doing. Probably glitter again. Prunella cleared her throat. “We gather in this extremely chaotic and overly fragrant garden to witness the ongoing saga of Glimmer and Barnaby—two beings so tragically codependent and ferociously in love that the universe simply gave up and started rooting for them.” “I vow,” Barnaby began, “to always share my last raspberry, even if you say you’re not hungry, and then immediately eat the entire thing. I vow to dance like nobody’s judging, even when you very much are. And I vow to annoy you forever, on purpose, because it makes you smile when you pretend it doesn’t.” Glimmer laughed and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I vow to let you think your ‘gnome yoga’ counts as cardio. I vow to never tell anyone that you cried during that squirrel documentary. And I vow to grow with you, wildly, stupidly, beautifully, in this garden and every ridiculous mess we make together.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the garden—mostly because the pollen count was obnoxious, but also because something about those two brought out the softest parts of everyone, even the mossy crank that lived behind the snail pond. They kissed beneath the glowing heart lanterns, surrounded by laughter, petals, and one faint explosion in the background from an unsupervised firework gnome who misread the schedule. But nothing could ruin it. Not even Prunella accidentally summoning a wind elemental that knocked over the champagne tower and whispered something deeply inappropriate in Glimmer’s ear. (She never told Barnaby what it said, but she smiled wickedly for days.) Moss, Mischief, and Matrimonial Mayhem Three days after the “unofficially official, partially elemental” vow renewal, Barnaby and Glimmer woke up to find their garden on the front page of The Gnomestead Gazette. Well, technically it was page two—the front page was reserved for a scandal involving a rogue hedgehog and a honey-smuggling ring—but there they were: full-color, mid-kiss, mid-lantern glow, mid-magic-chaos. The caption read: “GNOMANCE BLOOMS IN UNICORN-DUNG COMPOST DISTRICT.” Glimmer snorted orange juice through her nose. “At least they got my good side.” Barnaby beamed. “And they used the shot where my beard looks like a windswept prophecy. Glorious.” The coverage, unfortunately, brought attention. The kind of attention that involves gawking garden tourists, nosy neighbor gnomes with clipboards, and three separate suitors who showed up in monocles asking Glimmer if she’d “like to upgrade.” One brought a swan. A real swan. It bit him and pooped on his hat. Glimmer named the swan Terrence and kept him as emotional support chaos. Meanwhile, Barnaby found himself the sudden object of adoration for a cult of aspiring beard disciples who pitched tents near the rose patch and began meditating on ‘the Path of the Follicle.’ One carved a bust of Barnaby entirely out of artisanal soap. It smelled like lavender and delusions. “This is getting out of hand,” Glimmer said one afternoon as two mushroom influencers livestreamed themselves doing interpretive dance in front of the begonias. “They’re tagging us in their rituals, Barns.” “Maybe we should monetize?” he offered, only half-joking. “One more mushroom dances into my tea zone and I’m starting a war.” But it wasn’t just the fans. It was the garden itself. You see, in their reckless display of affection and fairy-light-laced pageantry, Glimmer and Barnaby had accidentally awakened something old. Something leafy. Something ornery. The Mossfather. A semi-sentient, ultra-mature patch of moss tucked deep in the forgotten corner of the garden—under the abandoned birdbath, between the two gnarled roots shaped like Elvis. It had slumbered for decades, absorbing stray whispers, stolen kisses, and one particularly juicy argument about whose turn it was to pick up gnome groceries. But now, roused by fireworks, emotional vows, and a wind elemental with a flair for theatrics, it had Awakened. And it was...moody. At first, the signs were subtle. Leaves twitching when no one watched. Unusual amounts of glitter found in bird nests. Mysteriously shuffled topiary sculptures forming vaguely passive-aggressive shapes. (“Is that a middle finger?” “No, dear. It’s a tulip. With opinions.”) Then came the dreams. Barnaby began sleep-mumbling in moss dialect. Glimmer kept waking up with her hat full of lichen and strange, vaguely threatening sonnets scrawled in compost ink beside the bed. Prunella, naturally, was delighted. “You’ve awakened an ancient sentience,” she said gleefully. “Do you know how rare that is? He’s like the cantankerous grandpa of the land. Grumpy, green, and full of emotional rot.” “Is that admiration?” Glimmer asked, pouring wine. “Oh yes. I’d shag it if I wasn’t allergic.” To appease the Mossfather, they organized a festival. (Because naturally, throwing an even bigger party was the only logical choice.) They called it the “Lichen & Love Gala.” Guests were encouraged to wear moss formalwear—robes, leafy corsets, dandelion bowties. Barnaby wore a cape made entirely of creeping thyme and smugness. Glimmer had a dress spun from spider silk and dandelion fluff that shimmered when she cursed under her breath. Entertainment was provided by a band of jazz gnomes, one extremely offended satyr who thought this was a masquerade orgy (it was not), and Terrence the Swan, who now had a fanbase of his own and absolutely knew it. He wore a monocle. No one knew where he got it. Near midnight, a hush fell over the garden. The Mossfather appeared—not walking, not gliding, but simply...being. An ancient green patch of fuzz the size of a small loveseat, pulsing with magic and judgment. He regarded them all with eldritch disappointment. “WHO DISTURBS MY SULK?” his voice boomed. Flowers wilted. Tea curdled. Prunella swooned. “Uh, hi?” Barnaby offered. “We brought snacks?” There was silence. A long, mossy silence. Then... the Mossfather nodded. “SNACKS... ACCEPTABLE.” The party resumed. More wine flowed. Prunella flirted shamelessly with the storm sprite working crowd control. Glimmer and Barnaby danced beneath the lanterns again, spinning through light and laughter, surrounded by chaos, beauty, and the utterly deranged family of misfits they had somehow assembled. Later that night, as they collapsed back onto their favorite bench, Barnaby sighed contentedly. “You know, I think this might be the weirdest thing we’ve ever done.” “Mmm,” Glimmer said, curling into his side. “You say that every time. But yes. Yes, it is.” “You think we’ll ever settle down? Live a quiet life? Garden. Nap. Bake things that don’t explode?” “No,” Glimmer said. “We’re terrible at normal. But we’re excellent at spectacularly odd.” “True. And spectacularly in love.” She smiled. “Don’t get mushy on me now.” “Too late. It’s the moss.” And beneath the twilight glow of heart-shaped lights and dancing fireflies, they kissed once more. Their garden pulsed with magic, mischief, and devotion that could melt the iciest root-witch. The Mossfather purred. Terrence the Swan bit someone in the distance. And the night bloomed on, forever strange and perfectly theirs.     Bring a little Garden of Devotion into your own world... If this story left your heart a little warmer and your cheeks a little more sore from smiling, you’re not alone. Glimmer and Barnaby’s perfectly peculiar romance has a way of lingering like the scent of honeysuckle and scandal. Now, you can keep that whimsy blooming wherever you are. From glowing love-lit scenes to gnome-level sass and enchantment, Garden of Devotion is available as a framed print for your gallery wall, a cozy fleece blanket to snuggle under during mischief plotting, or even a throw pillow that politely encourages your guests to be just a little weirder. There’s also a full tapestry edition if your space needs a dramatic garden flair—and yes, there’s a puzzle too, for those who want to piece the magic together one mischievous corner at a time. Framed Print | Tapestry | Jigsaw Puzzle | Throw Pillow | Fleece Blanket Celebrate the love that grows wild and the laughter that echoes through magic gardens. And remember—every good garden needs a little chaos, a lot of heart, and maybe just one slightly judgmental moss patch.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Pale Messenger of the Void

There are names not spoken aloud in the village of Vareth’s Hollow—names so old they cannot be traced in any written tongue, only whispered beneath breath and buried under stones. Names like Keth-Avûn, the Void Binder. Names like Eslarei, the Feathered Curse. The last one was muttered only once in the living memory of any soul who dared remain in that place—on the night the white raven returned. The pedestal still stood on the hill, worn by rain and lichen but never crumbling, though none could remember who carved it. At its base, the runes had long since lost meaning to the common folk, etched deep in a language that fed on silence and blood. And on the winter solstice, when the moon hung lowest and the wind carried the smell of burnt marrow, the raven came back—its feathers bone-white, save for the glistening red streaks that seemed to weep from its own body. Eril Dane, the apothecary's orphaned son, had never believed the stories. A pragmatist raised on tinctures and the bitter bark of reason, he scoffed at tales of "void messengers" and "soul brands." But when the raven landed at dusk, painting the frozen air with the scent of iron and rot, he felt something shift in the marrow of his bones. It wasn’t just fear—it was recognition. His mother had vanished when he was eight, walking into the fog with a leather-bound book and a scar below her throat that he had never noticed before. That same sigil, the one etched behind the raven in ethereal red light, now burned in his memory—he had drawn it once, by instinct, into the dirt. The village priest struck him for it. The scar on Eril’s knuckles still flared in cold weather. That night, he climbed the hill. The white raven did not flee. Its eyes, black as cinder pits and rimmed with blood, regarded him like a judge too weary for mercy. Eril knelt. The sigil blazed behind the bird, painting him in spirals of ruinous light, and a voice—more thought than sound—pressed into his head: “One must remember before they can repent.” He fell into a dream deeper than sleep. There, he wandered a crumbling city of bone towers and red rivers, each building shaped like weeping faces. The raven followed him, now a creature of immense size and shadow, shedding drops of memory and blood alike. In the reflection of a blood-slick river, he saw himself—not as a boy, but as a man wearing robes stitched with runes and guilt. And the raven on his shoulder. When he awoke, hours had passed. The hill was empty. But carved freshly into the stone pedestal, beneath the old symbols, was one new word: Eril. The village would not understand. They would fear him. But he knew now—the raven had not returned for vengeance. It had come for an heir. Vareth’s Hollow did not ask questions. That was how the village survived. But as the days passed and the snows blackened with ash, they began to notice changes they could not ignore. Cattle were born with teeth. Wells whispered secrets when drawn at dusk. The children stopped dreaming—or worse, began to speak of the same dream: a tower of feathers and flame where a man in robes stood screaming, his mouth filled with birds. Eril Dane rarely left the apothecary cellar now. The once-sunny shop was shuttered, herbs wilting against the windowpanes. No one saw him eat. No one saw him age. What they did see—what terrified them more than they dared admit—was the raven. Always the raven. Perched on the crooked weather vane above the apothecary. Watching. Waiting. Growing. Its feathers were not so white anymore. They were beginning to smoke at the edges, feather-tips curling into shadow. And from its body, a soft red glow pulsed like a heartbeat. No one approached the hill again. Not after the dogs stopped barking, and not after the last priest walked into the woods barefoot, weeping, and did not come back. Eril wrote, always wrote. Pages and pages filled with symbols no one could decipher—scratched with clawed quills, stained with something darker than ink. He spoke with the raven, though no lips moved. And at night, his dreams cracked open like rotten eggs, spilling truths that smelled of burning stars and long-buried screams. He saw the first Binding, when the ancient ones flayed the sky and chained the Hunger between worlds. He saw the Feathered Seal, carved from the bones of extinct gods and offered in pact to keep the Void slumbering. He saw the betrayal. The arrogance. The forgetting. And he saw his mother… smiling, mouth stitched shut with sigils, eyes burned out by knowledge she’d swallowed whole. She had walked into the fog to feed the Binding. Her flesh, her memory, her name—offered freely, to keep the world stitched together for another generation. But she had failed. Something had shifted. A glyph misaligned. A promise broken. And the cost would now be paid in full… by her bloodline. The raven was not a messenger. It was a ledger. It had returned not to warn—but to collect. When Eril emerged, on the night of the black moon, he was not alone. His shadow was wrong—too tall, shaped like feathers in a storm, rippling as if caught in an eternal wind. His eyes glowed faintly red, not from within, but as though something behind them was peering out. Watching. Judging. The villagers gathered at a distance, compelled by fear, by awe, by the weight of something ending. He did not speak. He lifted his hand, and the raven spread its wings. From the pedestal behind them, the sigil flared once more—this time not in light, but in absence. A perfect hole in reality. A wound that would never heal. The air wept blood. The trees bowed as though in mourning. And one by one, the names of every soul who had ever whispered Eslarei’s name echoed into the hollow… and vanished. Erased. Devoured. Eril Dane became more than a man that night. He became the last sigil. The Living Bind. The One Who Remembers. His name would never again be spoken in Vareth’s Hollow, because the village no longer existed. The map burned itself clean. The roads rerouted. The stars refused to align above its former resting place. But in certain forbidden grimoires—pages written in feather-blood and sealed with breathless wax—there is still mention of a pale bird that heralds the Void. A raven, crowned in runes, that lands only once every thousand years upon the stone where memory dies. And when it does, it does not come for prophecy. It comes to feed.     Epilogue Centuries passed. The world turned, forgetful as ever. Forests reclaimed the land. Dust buried truth. And still, the pedestal remained—unbroken, untouched, unseen. They called it the "Blind Stone" in the new maps, though none who passed it could remember why they avoided it, only that their hearts grew heavier the closer they came. Even satellite imagery blurred, as if something ancient reached through code and lens alike to keep itself sacred, veiled. Yet every so often, a white bird is spotted by travelers—solitary, silent, watching from a twisted tree or a crumbled stone, feathers too pale for nature, eyes too dark for peace. It does not fly. It simply waits. And for those few who dare sketch its form, or speak its sighting aloud, strange dreams follow. Dreams of towers made of mouths, of a man with a bleeding crown, of a name scratched in ash into the inside of their eyelids. Sometimes they wake with feathers in their hands. Sometimes, they don't wake at all. And in one forgotten corner of the world, where no birds sing and the wind moans in old tongues, the pedestal's runes flicker faintly—like a heartbeat beneath stone. A single word still burns upon it: “Eril.”     If this story lingers in your bones and whispers through your dreams, you can now bring the legend home. Let the raven watch over your space, ward your rest, or shadow your thoughts with these evocative merchandise pieces. Drape your walls in the myth with a rune-bound tapestry, or summon the void’s elegance with a metal print worthy of arcane reverence. Sink into haunting comfort with a plush throw pillow, or let forgotten lore guard your dreams beneath a duvet cover woven with whispers. And if you wander, carry its omen with you in a tote bag etched in shadow.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Keeper of My Love

The Lock, the Key, and the Gnome Who Knew Too Much The wedding was at exactly 4:04 PM. Because gnomes are not known for being punctual, but they are known for symmetry. And according to the elders, nothing locks love in place like a pair of mirrored numbers. So 4:04 it was, in a glade so dripping with blossoms and fairy perfume that even the mushrooms were a bit tipsy. She stood there in lace and defiance—Lunella Fernwhistle, third daughter of the Fernwhistle clan, known across the gardens for her spellbinding florals and her tendency to spike the compost punch. Her hair was a tempest of silver ringlets, wrapped in a crown of fresh-cut gardenia and chaos. Her bouquet? Hand-forged from freshly liberated blooms and whatever hadn’t been eaten by snails that morning. She smelled like honeysuckle, mystery, and maybe a dash of moonshine. On purpose. And he? Well. Bolliver Thatchroot was the most unlikely catch in all the grove. Not because he wasn’t handsome—in a rotund, knobby-kneed sort of way—but because Bolliver had once been a confirmed bachelor with a key to everything: the pantry, the wine cellar, the council’s emergency beer cache, even old Ma Muddlefoot’s diary vault (don’t ask). If it locked, Bolliver had opened it. And if it didn’t lock, he fixed that immediately. He was a locksmith, a trickster, and a soft-touch all rolled into one biscuit-loving bundle of beard and plaid. But on this day, in this moment, Bolliver held just one key—slightly oversized, unmistakably symbolic—and wrapped his tiny fingers around it like it was the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever known. It swung from a silver ring at his belt, catching the filtered sunlight as he leaned in to meet Lunella’s lips with a kiss so gentle, the bees blushed and the squirrels politely looked away. The crowd sighed. Somewhere, a flute player missed a note. A petal fell in slow motion. And the officiant, a cranky but beloved toad named Sir Splotsworth, wiped a tear from his warted cheek and croaked, “Get on with it, lovebirds. Some of us have tadpoles to get home to.” But Lunella didn’t hear him. She only heard the beat of her own heart, the rustle of wind through the foxgloves, and the little squeaky “eep!” that Bolliver always made when he was about to do something bold. And sure enough, bold he was. The kiss, though brief, came with a whisper. “This key? It’s not just for our cottage door,” he murmured. “It’s for you. All of you. Even the compost-wine parts.” Lunella smiled. “Then you’d best be ready for a lifetime of weird fermentations and midnight barefoot gardening, my love.” The petals rained down like applause. The crowd erupted in claps and root-stomps. Bolliver gave a dramatic bow, then accidentally dropped the keyring into the punch bowl. It fizzed. It glowed. A small explosion might have followed. No one cared. The kiss had been perfect. The bride was glowing. And the groom—well, he still smelled vaguely of rust and raspberries, which Lunella found alarmingly arousing. The wedding may have ended, but the real mischief was only just beginning... The Cottage, the Curses, and the Unexpected Furniture Arrangement The cottage was a hand-me-down from Bolliver’s great-aunt Twibbin, who had allegedly once dated a hedgehog. It sat at the bend of Sweetroot Creek, just out of earshot from the local knitting circle (which doubled as the town’s rumor mill), and was covered in climbing ivy, expired wind chimes, and one surprisingly opinionated weather vane shaped like a goose. It squawked “rain” every day, regardless of the forecast. Bolliver carried Lunella over the threshold, as was tradition, but misjudged the height of the doorframe and bonked both their heads in the process. They laughed, rubbing their foreheads while stepping inside to a scene of charming chaos: toadstool chairs, an armchair that burped when sat on, and a chandelier made entirely of melted teaspoons and stubborn pixie spit. Lunella wrinkled her nose and immediately opened every window. “Smells like three decades of bachelor stew and bad decisions in here.” “That’s how you know it’s home,” Bolliver beamed, already unlocking the cabinets with his master key. Inside: two jars of pickled turnips (labelled “emergency snack – 1998”), one mothball masquerading as a cinnamon bun, and something that might have once been cheese but now had its own legs. Lunella sighed. “We’re going to have to bless this entire space with sage. Possibly fire.” But before the decontamination began, she noticed something peculiar. Bolliver’s keyring—now free of punch bowl fizz—was glowing softly. Not aggressively. More like a friendly hum. A hum that said, *“Hey, I open weird stuff. Wanna find out what?”* “Why is your key doing that?” she asked, her fingers brushing the metal. Warm. Tingly. Slightly arousing. Bolliver blinked. “Oh. That. Might be the honeymoon key.” “The what now?” “It’s an ancient Thatchroot family heirloom. Legend says if you use it on the right door, it opens a secret chamber of marital delight. Full of silken pillows, romantic lighting, and... adjustable furniture.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “But we haven’t found the door yet.” Challenge. Accepted. Over the next three hours, Lunella and Bolliver ran amok through the cottage, testing every nook and cranny. Behind the armoire? Nope. Under the rug? Just dust and a worm that glared at them like they'd interrupted something intimate. The fireplace? Not unless “hot soot shower” was a turn-on. Even the outhouse got tested—though that led to a mild plumbing incident and one deeply confused raccoon. Finally, they stood before the last untouched place: the closet in the attic. Ancient, slightly warped, and oozing the scent of cedar and suspicion. The key vibrated in Bolliver’s hand like a giddy puppy. Lunella, undeterred, yanked the door open with a flourish— And vanished. “LUNELLA?!” Bolliver shouted, diving in after her. The door slammed. The goose-shaped weather vane outside screamed “RAIN!” and the wind laughed like a gossiping banshee. They tumbled not into a storage space, but into a full-blown enchanted chamber of sensual nonsense. The lighting was dim and flattering. Music—somehow a cross between harps and slow banjo—drifted through the air. Heart-shaped lanterns floated lazily overhead. And the furniture? Oh, the furniture. Plush, velvety, covered in vaguely romantic embroidery like “Kiss Me Again” and “Nice Beard.” One chair had a cupholder and a suggestive glint in its carving. Another reclined with a dramatic sigh and released a chocolate truffle from its drawer. Lunella sat, testing the bounce of a particularly provocative settee. “Okay. I admit. This is... impressive.” Bolliver slid beside her, the key now glowing like a smug candle. “Told you. The Keeper of My Love doesn’t just hold doors. He opens experiences.” She rolled her eyes so hard they nearly left orbit. “Please tell me you didn’t rehearse that.” “A little.” He leaned in. “But mostly I just knew that someday, somewhere, I’d find the one who fit the lock.” “You sappy bastard,” Lunella whispered, before tackling him into the velvet. The room sealed itself gently. The lanterns dimmed. Outside, the weather vane honked in celebration. Somewhere, far off, the town’s knitting circle paused mid-gossip, all of them suddenly sensing that something saucy was unfolding in the Thatchroot attic. And they were right. But that’s not where the story ends. Oh no. Because while Bolliver was very good at unlocking doors, it turns out Lunella had some secrets of her own—and not all of them were the “sugar and spice” kind. Let’s just say the honeymoon suite wouldn’t stay private for long... Secrets, Scandals, and the Great Gnome Glare-Off The next morning, Lunella awoke in a tangle of velvet and limbs and a cushion embroidered with “Thatchroot It to Me.” She blinked. The enchanted suite was still purring contentedly around her. Bolliver snored beside her like a gentle foghorn, one hand still wrapped protectively around his jangly keyring, the other flopped across her bare hip like he was claiming territory. Which, to be fair, he kind of was. She smiled, mussed his beard just to make him grumble in his sleep, and quietly rose to investigate. The door behind them had vanished. Again. Typical honeymoon suite behavior. But what concerned her wasn’t the disappearing door — it was the faint sound of voices... and the smell of scones. Voices. Plural. Scones. Unmistakable. She scrambled into her dressing robe (which was apparently made of hummingbird feathers and light sarcasm) and tiptoed down the enchanted stairwell that had appeared where a broom closet used to be. As she opened the final door, she was greeted with the last thing any newlywed wants to see the day after magical lovemaking: The entire Fernwhistle-Figpocket neighborhood standing in her kitchen. And every one of them holding a baked good. “Surprise!” they chorused. A pie crust flung itself across the room in excitement. “Wha—how—why—” Lunella stammered. “Well,” said Mrs. Wimpletush, a high-ranking gossip general and the only known gnome with glitter allergies, “we smelled the honeymoon.” “The what?” “Dear, you activated the chamber of marital delight. That thing hasn’t been opened since 1743. There was a newsletter about it. It's basically gnome legend.” She adjusted her spectacles. “And, well, the scent markers go off like fireworks. Made my begonias blush.” Lunella groaned. “So you broke into our home?” “We brought muffins!” Before she could retort, Bolliver appeared at the top of the stairwell, gloriously rumpled, wearing only his plaid trousers and confidence. “Ah,” he said. “It appears my reputation has once again preceded me.” He strutted down the stairs with the air of a man who’d seen some things and enjoyed every last one of them. The crowd parted respectfully. Even the goose-shaped weather vane outside briefly nodded. Mrs. Wimpletush sniffed. “So. The rumors are true. The key has returned.” “The key’s been busy,” Lunella muttered, yanking a muffin from someone’s tray and eating it spitefully. But the muffins were just the beginning. Over the next few days, the cottage became the talk of the township. Visitors came by under the guise of bringing “blessing stones” and “carrot jam,” but mostly they wanted a peek at the newlyweds and their infamous love chamber. Lunella didn’t mind the attention — she thrived on spectacle — but she drew the line when two nosy spinster gnomes from Upper Fernclump tried to bribe Bolliver for a tour. “Absolutely not,” Lunella snapped, barring the door with a shovel. “This is our magical sex attic. Not a garden attraction.” Bolliver, for once, looked sheepish. “They offered twenty gold acorns.” “You can’t sell our honeymoon suite experience!” “But what if I offer upgrades?” Lunella slapped him with a lavender sachet and stormed into the garden. Things were tense for a few hours. He brought her apology scones. She responded with passive-aggressive weeding. Eventually, he left a note attached to the key: I only want to open doors if you’re behind them. Sorry. Also, I waxed the spoon chandelier. That thing was a nightmare. She forgave him. Mostly because no one waxed cursed cutlery like Bolliver. Weeks passed. The gossip waned. Mrs. Wimpletush got distracted by a new scandal involving someone’s dragon-sized zucchini. The honeymoon chamber returned to hibernation. The furniture settled into occasional moaning and dramatic sighs, as furniture does. The key, now worn smooth from adventures, lived in a place of honor beside the teacups and the misbehaving teapot that wouldn’t stop singing sea shanties. Lunella and Bolliver settled into marriage like they did everything else: with sass, sweetness, and a hint of chaos. They danced barefoot in moonlit gardens. They brewed mushroom wine with suspicious side effects. They hosted parties where furniture gave unsolicited relationship advice. And once, they even let the goose weather vane officiate a vow renewal ceremony for two snails. It was beautiful. Wet, but beautiful. And every night, just before bed, Bolliver would jangle the keyring and wink. “Still the keeper of my love,” he’d say. “Damn right you are,” Lunella would smirk, dragging him upstairs by the belt loop. And so they lived happily, mischievously, romantically, and thoroughly ever after—reminding everyone in Fernwhistle-Figpocket that love doesn’t just unlock doors… it also occasionally explodes punch bowls, breaks magical thresholds, and smells just a little like burnt sage and sin.     Bring a little mischief and magic home… If Bolliver and Lunella’s love story made you laugh, swoon, or seriously reconsider the romantic potential of attic furniture — don’t let the magic stop here. You can capture their enchanted moment in your own realm with a canvas print that glows with whimsical romance, or wrap yourself up in their mischief with a soft and vibrant tapestry worthy of the honeymoon suite itself. For cozy cuddles, there’s the charming throw pillow, or spread a little gnome-ance far and wide with an adorable greeting card — perfect for weddings, anniversaries, or mildly inappropriate love notes. And if you’re feeling bold (or mildly chaotic), test your patience and devotion with a magical puzzle featuring the duo’s dreamy kiss and keyring of destiny. Whether you're team velvet-furniture or team sarcastic goose weather vane, there's a little something for everyone in this collection. Because let’s be honest — love like this deserves a place on your wall, your couch, and your coffee table.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Queen of the Forsaken Soil

The Screaming Soil The land was wrong. Not just haunted, not just cursed. It screamed. Beneath the brittle roots of leafless trees, under stones older than kings, deep in the marrow of the earth — the soil itself whispered names. Names no one should know. It begged. It threatened. It told filthy stories that’d peel the teeth from your skull if you listened too long. That’s why no one came here willingly. Except for bastard lunatics. And Pym. Pym was a rat-catcher, formally. Informally, he was a drunk, a gravedigger’s assistant, a mediocre pickpocket, and an ex-squire who once farted during a bishop’s funeral mass and had never recovered socially. Life hadn’t handed Pym much in the way of dignity. But he had nimble fingers and a talent for pretending he didn’t notice corpses moving. He’d been sent to the Forsaken Soil by a mistake. A cartographer’s one-eyed apprentice had miswritten “blessed woodlands” on a parchment that actually meant “do not enter unless you’re tired of your skin.” Pym, ever optimistic and three tankards deep, had taken the job for a silver half-drake and a warm handjob behind the alehouse. That was twelve hours ago. And now he stood ankle-deep in muck that bled when you stepped wrong, staring at what was unmistakably a throne of skulls, and a woman — if you could call that towering hell-beast a woman — perched on it like a spider in mourning. The sky was dead gray. The trees had no leaves. The wind sounded like it sobbed through broken flutes. And the queen... She wore the darkness like a perfume. Her horns curled like old knives. Her red skin gleamed like lacquered sin. A black raven perched on her arm, pecking at a silver chain wound tight around her wrist. She snarled with the kind of authority that didn’t ask for your attention, it seized it by the throat, bit down, and whispered “mine.” “Well,” Pym muttered, already regretting everything from his childhood onward, “looks like I’ve stumbled into a royal arse-whooping.” The Queen rose. Slowly. Deliberately. As if gravity was her plaything. Her eyes, bright with fury and ancient boredom, locked on his. Her lips parted. And when she spoke, her voice cracked the air like frost cracking a tombstone. “You dare trespass,” she said, “with piss on your boots and hangover breath in your mouth?” Pym blinked. “Technically, milady, it's not my piss.” Silence. Even the raven tilted its head like it wasn’t sure whether to laugh or disembowel him. She stepped forward, the skulls beneath her throne crunching like dry cereal. “Then whose piss is it?” “...Would you believe me if I said divine intervention?” There are many ways to die in the Forsaken Soil. Slowly, screaming, clawing your own eyes out. Quickly, with your heart ripped through your back. But Pym, the idiot, did what no one in five hundred years had done: He made the Queen of the Forsaken Soil laugh. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. It was the kind of laugh that made your spleen try to leave your body through your spine. But it was a laugh. And when she was done, when her jagged grin had split her face nearly in half, she said, “Fine. I’ll give you a task.” Pym sighed. “Can it be fetching ale? I’m quite good at that.” “No,” she said. “I want you to find my heart.” “Not much for poetry, are you?” “I buried it six centuries ago in the belly of a demon. Find it, bring it to me, and I might let you leave with your genitals still attached.” Pym scratched his stubble. “Seems fair.” And with that, the Queen turned and vanished into mist. The raven stayed, watching him. Judging him. Probably considering whether he could survive on rat-catcher meat alone. “Well, bird,” Pym said, adjusting his crotch. “Looks like we’re going heart hunting.” The Demon’s Belly and the House that Hated Floors Pym had one rule in life, and it was: Don’t follow talking birds. Unfortunately, the Queen hadn’t exactly given him options. The raven squawked once, flapped its wings, and began drifting down a trail of gnarled, bone-colored trees that arched over like a vertebrae-choked tunnel. The soil beneath his feet pulsed occasionally, as if it was dreaming something ugly. Which it probably was. The whole landscape felt like the inside of a colon that belonged to a failed god. The raven didn’t talk. But it sure did judge. Every time Pym stumbled, it turned its head slowly like a disappointed librarian. Every time he muttered something sarcastic, it cawed just once — sharp and short, like it was filing his name under “Future Disembowelment.” After two hours of walking through fog so thick it made his teeth ache, Pym saw the demon. To be fair, the demon might’ve once been a castle. Or a mountain. Or a cathedral. Now it was all three, and none. It pulsed like a living organ, with windows for eyes and doors that opened and closed like mouths mid-scream. From its roof jutted towers shaped like broken fingers, and down its sides oozed viscous, dark ichor that smelled like regret, onions, and betrayal. “Queen really knows how to bury a heart,” Pym muttered. The entrance wasn’t guarded, unless you counted the wall of teeth that snapped shut every thirty seconds like a metronome for the damned. The raven landed on a crooked fencepost and cawed twice. Translation: Well, you going in or what, dickhead? Pym waited until the jaw-wall opened, dashed through, and immediately regretted everything. The inside of the demon’s belly was worse. The floors weren’t floors. They were slick, pulsing membranes that squelched under his boots. The halls shifted. Sometimes they were too narrow, other times they yawned open into cathedral-sized spaces with ceilings made of writhing worms. Portraits blinked. Doors screamed when you touched them. And worst of all, the building hated gravity. Halfway down one hallway, he fell up. He landed on the ceiling, only for it to turn into a staircase that folded inside itself like origami having a panic attack. He cursed. Loudly. The place responded with a wet belch and a wall that tried to lick him. “I’ve been in brothels cleaner than this,” he grunted. Eventually, he found the heart. Or what was left of it. It floated in a chamber the size of a cathedral nave, encased in glass, suspended in thick yellow-green fluid. It pulsed slowly, like it was remembering how to beat. Black veins curled through it, and arcane runes lit the air around it like angry fireflies. Surrounding the heart was a circle of iron obelisks, and kneeling at each was a creature that could best be described as "priest-shaped fungus with opinions." The raven landed beside him, somehow unfazed. Pym sighed. “Well. This is either the world’s creepiest baptism or a Monday in the Queen’s calendar.” He crept in, careful not to step on the writhing red roots that wormed out from the obelisks and into the walls. The moment he touched the glass, one of the kneeling things moaned and lifted its face. It had no eyes. No mouth. Just a lot of weeping holes and a very wet sound when it moved. “Ah. The welcoming committee.” Things escalated quickly. The fungus-priests rose, shaking off bits of sacred slime. They hissed. One reached for a curved knife made of screaming bone. Pym pulled a dagger from his belt — which, to be fair, was mostly ceremonial and mostly used to slice cheese — and launched himself into the dumbest fight of his life. He stabbed one in the kneecap. It squealed like a pig made of fungus and exploded into spores. Another lunged; Pym dodged and accidentally tripped on a root, landing face-first in something that definitely wasn’t carpet. He scrambled, slashed, bit, headbutted. Eventually, he stood panting, covered in goo, with three dead not-quite-monks around him, and the raven staring like it was reconsidering their entire partnership. “Don’t judge me,” he wheezed. “I was trained for rats, not demonic clergy.” He grabbed the heart. The runes screamed. The tower trembled. Outside, the demon-castle let out a sound like someone stepping on a bag of organs. The fluid in the tank began to boil. The heart beat faster — it was alive now, angry and wet and pulsing with foul heat. “Time to leave,” Pym muttered, sprinting as the floor melted and the ceiling turned into a nest of teeth. It was a blur. He ran, ducked, swore, possibly soiled himself (again — still not his fault), and finally burst out the demon’s jaw-door just as it collapsed behind him in a roaring wave of broken architecture and bile. He collapsed in the mud, still holding the jarred, steaming heart in his hands like a sacred turd. The raven landed beside him, gave a single approving caw, and nodded toward the mist. The Queen waited. Of course she did. And Pym had no idea what the hell she was going to do with this disgusting chunk of ancient rage — or what she might do with him for being stupid enough to actually succeed. But hell, he wasn’t going to back out now. “Let’s go see royalty,” he muttered, and followed the bird into the fog. The Heartless Queen and the Bastard Crown The fog thickened as Pym walked. It clung to him like a wet, pervy uncle. With every step, the heart pulsed hotter in his arms, leaking small drips of ancient, boiling ichor onto his shirt. His nipples would never be the same. Behind him, the demon-castle collapsed into a gurgling sinkhole, still belching out the occasional hymn of despair, which Pym found oddly catchy. The raven circled ahead like a drunken prophet, finally guiding him back to the clearing — back to her. The Queen of the Forsaken Soil stood exactly where he’d left her, though now the throne of skulls had multiplied. Twice the bones. Triple the menace. A second raven perched on her shoulder, this one older, balder, and somehow more disappointed-looking. “You return,” she said, eyeing him with a gaze that could make stone weep blood. “And intact.” Pym coughed, wiped some demon-slime off his chin, and held up the jar like an idiot displaying a meat prize at a butcher’s convention. “Found your heart. It was inside a giant screaming building full of religious mushrooms and bad taste.” She did not laugh this time. Instead, she descended the skull steps with a grace that made gravity blush. The mist curled away from her. The ground whispered, She walks, she walks, she walks. The two ravens flanked her like feathery shadows. When she reached him, she extended a single clawed hand. Pym hesitated, just a little. Because in that moment, the heart twitched. Not like a dying thing. Like a watching thing. Like it knew this wasn’t just a delivery. Like it wanted to be held a little longer. “...You’re not going to eat it, are you?” The Queen raised a brow. “Would it matter?” He thought about it. “Kind of, yeah. I'm emotionally fragile and squeamish after that last fungus orgy.” She grinned. “I’ll show you what I do with it.” She took the jar and — in one impossibly smooth motion — crushed it in her palm. Glass and fluid hissed, and the heart dropped onto her other hand like it had been waiting. She raised it above her head. The sky groaned. The skulls howled. A bolt of black lightning struck the earth a few feet away and opened a screaming pit full of wailing, naked lawyers (probably). Then she shoved the heart into her own chest. No wound. No incision. Just pure magic. The flesh parted like old curtains and drank the organ in. She roared — not in pain, but in power. Her skin lit from within, brighter than fire, redder than vengeance. The wind shrieked. Trees caught fire. Ravens exploded into feathers and reformed into skeletal versions of themselves. She levitated a few inches off the ground and spoke with a voice made of iron, shadow, and sarcasm. “I AM WHOLE.” “That’s... great,” Pym said, trying not to pee himself again. “So, we good? You’re healed, I get to leave with all my fingers?” She floated gently back to the ground, her form changed. Taller. More monstrous. More regal. She was still beautiful, but in the way a thunderstorm is beautiful right before it drops a tornado on your house. “You did not merely return my heart,” she said. “You touched it. Carried it. Gave it warmth. You breathed over it. That makes you...” She stepped forward, and placed one clawed hand on his chest. “...a consort.” “I’m sorry, a what now?” She snapped her fingers. Chains of mist wrapped around his limbs. A crown of bone and blood appeared in her other hand. She held it over his head with amused menace. “Kneel, rat-catcher.” “I think this is moving a bit fast—” “Kneel and rule beside me, or die with your balls in a jar. Your choice.” Pym, being an adaptable man and not particularly attached to his testicles, dropped to one knee. The crown dropped onto his greasy hair. It hissed, bit, then settled. He felt nothing at first. Then too much. Power, yes — but also history. Centuries of war, sorrow, rage, betrayal, and very poor architectural decisions. “Ow,” he said, as his spine cracked into regal posture. “That tickles. And burns.” The Queen leaned in, her lips at his ear. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll rot trying.” The mist lifted. The Forsaken Soil shifted. It accepted him. Skulls arranged themselves into a new throne beside hers. The dead whispered gossip. The trees bowed. The ravens nested in his hair. One of them pooped gently on his shoulder in approval. And just like that, Pym the rat-catcher became King of the Damned. Consort to a furious, heart-reborn goddess. Keeper of the Fog. Heir to nothing, master of everything that should not exist. He sat beside her, newly majestic, already itching from the crown and wondering if kings got bar tabs. He leaned over to her. “So,” he whispered, “now that we’re co-ruling, does this mean we share a bathroom or...?” The Queen did not answer. But she did smile. And far below them, in the screaming soil, something new began to stir.     Claim Your Throne (or at least your wall)If the Queen has haunted your imagination like she did poor Pym’s underwear, why not bring her home in all her dark, cinematic glory? This powerful image — Queen of the Forsaken Soil — is now available as a tapestry fit for a cursed throne room, a canvas print soaked in gothic dread, a metal print sharp enough to summon demons, or an acrylic print smooth enough to lure a raven. Want something more interactive? Dare to assemble the Queen piece by piece with this dark fantasy jigsaw puzzle — perfect for rainy nights and mild psychological unraveling. Long live the Queen… preferably on your wall.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Leaf Me Be, I'm Fabulous!

Once upon a mossy morning in the grand, gossip-ridden undergrowth of the Lower Fern District, there lived a fuzzy, flamboyant caterpillar named Dandy. Not just any caterpillar—no, no—Dandy was born with what some might call an excessive flair for dramatics, a love for bold floral accessories, and a level of sass rarely found in creatures with six stubby legs and a thorax. Dandy had the kind of fuzzy lime fur that shimmered in the sun like a disco ball at a beetle’s birthday rave. His emerald eyes were glossy with the kind of innocence you see in soap commercials, framed by lashes long enough to require wind clearance. He wore rosy cheeks with the pride of a woodland debutante. But most importantly, Dandy carried a Gerbera daisy like a diva clutches her pearls: dramatically, unapologetically, and always color-coordinated. “You there!” Dandy called out one breezy morning to a sleepy slug passing by. “Tell me honestly—does this flower say ‘earthy enchantress’ or more ‘floral vengeance’?” The slug blinked (or maybe just slimed), unsure if it was being propositioned, insulted, or recruited into a flash mob. Dandy didn’t wait for a response. He posed with his flower, tilted his antennae just so, and gave a fierce pout that could curdle milk. “It says I’m FABULOUS, that’s what it says,” Dandy answered himself with a wink so powerful it disoriented a nearby fruit fly. Dandy wasn’t merely confident—he was a walking, wiggling embodiment of insect empowerment. He’d once faced down a bird with nothing but biting sarcasm and a glitter-bombed pinecone. When other caterpillars were fretting about metamorphosis and identity crises, Dandy had already customized his dream chrysalis with satin lining and optional skylight. “I’m not evolving,” he told anyone who would listen, “I’m curating my next form.” But even a bug like Dandy, dripping in confidence and flower pollen, wasn’t immune to trouble. Trouble, in this case, came slinking into the glade wearing a dusty mandible and a smirk. “Well, well, if it isn’t Princess Petal-Pants,” sneered Flick, the neighborhood mantis and walking midlife crisis. “What’s next, sparkles in your frass?” Dandy turned slowly. “Oh honey,” he purred, fluttering his lashes. “I’d explain it to you, but I left my bilingual mantis-to-basic guide in my other leaf clutch. Now do scurry along—I don’t cater to bugs who can’t spell ‘fabulous’ without biting off their own heads.” And just like that, Dandy sashayed deeper into the glade, flower high, self-worth higher, leaving Flick gasping in a cloud of daisy-scented dust and ego bruises. But little did Dandy know, his next great challenge wasn’t rude bugs or fashion critiques... it was survival, transformation, and a possibly illegal underground caterpillar pageant. The Wiggle Awakens Later that afternoon, Dandy found himself reclining luxuriously on a patch of moss that was softer than a spider’s whisper and greener than envy at a leaf-rolling competition. He adjusted the daisy between his stubby paws and stared dramatically into the canopy above, as if expecting applause to rain from the sky. “Why must I be so devastatingly magnetic?” he sighed, one antenna flopping for added effect. But somewhere in the distance, the winds of fate rustled—not gently, not romantically—but with the chaotic force of a squirrel with unresolved trauma. Through the leaves came a buzzing whisper: “They’re back. The Silk Circle returns tonight.” Dandy gasped. His eyes grew to dinner-plate diameter. “The Silk Circle?!” The Silk Circle was the stuff of buggy legend. An underground, invite-only society of caterpillars dedicated to glamour, transformation, and unbridled self-expression. They met deep in the underbrush inside a secret club known only as “The Chrysalis Cabana.” It was said to be carved into the underside of a rotting log and lit entirely by firefly butts—classy ones, obviously, the kind that pulse to disco beats. “I haven’t been to the Cabana since…” Dandy trailed off, one leg dramatically clutching his forehead. “Since The Incident.” The Incident, of course, referred to the time Dandy’s interpretive dance number to *Flight of the Bumblebee* ended with an accidental collision with the punch bowl, a scandalous slip on a banana peel, and a very public declaration of love to an unsuspecting ladybug who was, unfortunately, already married to a stag beetle with anger issues. But tonight, the Silk Circle was reawakening. Word had it that Madame Mothra—the Circle’s legendary founder and high priestess of glitter glue—was returning from her final metamorphosis tour in the West Ferns. And rumor had it she was looking for her successor. “This is it,” Dandy whispered. “My moment. My destiny. My runway.” With a series of confident wiggles, pirouettes, and what may have been a jazz paw, he tucked his daisy into his imaginary belt and began his journey toward the Cabana. He passed judgmental pillbugs, flirted with a handsome aphid, and narrowly dodged an overzealous robin by playing dead in the most over-the-top faint ever attempted by an invertebrate. After dusk, Dandy reached the log. A stern caterpillar bouncer with a monocle and a thorn tattoo on his thorax raised a brow. “Name?” “Dandy,” he said, striking a pose that involved all twelve of his body segments. “Tell Madame I’m back. And I brought attitude, sparkle, and interpretive jazz wings.” The bouncer didn’t flinch. “Password?” Dandy leaned forward. “Unfurl the fabulous.” The mossy door creaked open to reveal a surreal dreamscape. The Cabana was alive with glitter, pheromones, and questionable decisions. Disco spores floated through the air. Ladybugs served nectar shots on thimble trays. A praying mantis DJ spun bops that hadn’t charted in years but still slapped. And there—at the center of it all—Madame Mothra. She was majestic, an icon, a legend. Her wings shimmered like moonlight trapped in velvet. Her voice, when she spoke, was like a lullaby laced with cinnamon and power. “My sweetlings,” she cooed. “Tonight we crown the next High Flap of the Circle.” The crowd erupted. Someone fainted. Someone else molted. Dandy’s heart fluttered somewhere between excitement and sheer terror. Was he ready? Could he reclaim his sparkle? Did his antenna look flat? Contestants were called to the mossy stage. There was Crispin the couture caterpillar in rhinestone armor, Boopsy the interpretive poet who only spoke in silk trails, and Glimmer, a dangerously seductive inchworm with backup dancers and fog machine access. Then came Dandy. Spotlight. Silence. He stepped forward and whispered, “This one’s for every bug that’s ever been told their glitter was ‘too much.’” He dropped the daisy. And danced. It wasn’t polished. It wasn’t subtle. But it was raw, wriggly joy. He incorporated wiggles, flips, an air violin solo, and a final pose that spelled the word “FAB” with his body in cursive. There were tears. There were gasps. A millipede started slow clapping with 612 legs. As the music faded, Madame Mothra glided over. “You,” she said. “Are ridiculous.” Beat. Tension. Then— “But so am I. And that, my dear… is fabulous.” Confetti burst from fungal pods. A chorus of bugs broke into song. The daisy was returned to Dandy with a tiny tiara glued to the center. He’d done it. He was the new High Flap. The Cabana chanted his name. Slugs wept. The mantis DJ dropped a remix of Beyoncé’s "Irreplaceable" made entirely with leaf sounds. And Dandy, through all the glitter and pheromones, knew one thing deep in his gut: it wasn’t just about glamour. It was about showing up exactly as you are, with petals, sass, and all your weird, squirmy magic—and making the whole forest say, “Leaf me be... they’re fabulous.” Chrysalis, Interrupted The morning after his glitter-drenched coronation, Dandy awoke in a leaf hammock with a slight glitter hangover, antennae tangled, and a daisy stuck to his face. He blinked slowly. “Did I... twerk at a stag beetle?” Yes. Yes, he had. But regrets were for bugs with boring destinies, and Dandy had no time for remorse. The forest buzzed with news. His coronation had broken Silk Circle records: most audience members fainting, most accidental pollen inhalation, and the first dance battle to cause a spontaneous mushroom bloom. His inbox (a hollowed acorn) was stuffed with invitation scrolls: brunch with elder snails, modeling offers from bark beetles, even a spiritual retreat hosted by bees who only spoke in haikus. Yet amid all the fame and fanfare, Dandy knew something bigger was coming. Not just figuratively. Literally. His skin itched in that way that only meant one thing: the Chrysalis Call. The ultimate glow-up. The moment every caterpillar feared, fantasized about, and secretly Googled late at night on borrowed squirrel tablets: metamorphosis. He stood before the Mirror Dewdrop™ (a product placement courtesy of Mossfluence marketing) and stared at his reflection. “Am I ready to give up this fuzzy fabulousness?” he whispered. “Will I still be... me?” He did what he always did when faced with existential dread: he struck a fierce pose, adjusted his flower, and gave himself a pep talk. “You are DANDY. You’re not becoming something new—you’re becoming extra. If anything, the world better prepare for an airborne sass attack.” With that, he picked a shady branch draped in silk vines and climbed up, twirling for dramatic effect even now. He wrapped himself in shimmering thread—yes, sequined silk, don’t @ him—and formed the most breathtaking chrysalis the forest had ever seen. It looked like a jewel, like a disco ball had a love child with an opal. Bugs came by just to gawk. Moths wrote sonnets. A chipmunk tried to steal it. Typical. Inside, things were... confusing. It turns out turning into goo is a very personal journey. Thoughts floated like bubbles in champagne: his dreams, his fears, that one time he got stuck in a tulip and had to be rescued by an aggressively helpful beetle named Carl. He felt himself dissolving and reforming, but not into something different. Into something more Dandy than ever before. And then... Light. Cracks. The sound of a dramatic string section somewhere in the ether. His chrysalis shattered in a slow-motion explosion of silk confetti, and Dandy emerged. Wings. WINGS. Glorious, iridescent masterpieces that shimmered like someone spilled unicorn glitter into moonlight. His body, still fuzzy, still fierce. His antennae now curved like stylish punctuation marks. He fluttered upward with an accidental loop-de-loop that knocked over a pinecone. “Oops,” he giggled, “still adjusting to fabulous flight.” The forest gasped. Bugs gathered. Madame Mothra wept. “Look at you,” she choked out, dabbing her compound eyes with a pressed petal. “You’re an inspiration. A work of art. A flight risk for traditional gender roles.” And Dandy knew—he hadn’t changed. He’d blossomed. He was still dramatic, still dashing, still dangerously good at passive-aggressive compliments. But now he could be all of that from the air. He spent the day making glitter trails across the sky. He delivered pep talks to anxious inchworms. He hosted an aerial drag brunch using his wings as stage curtains. He became the legend the forest didn’t know it needed, but now couldn’t imagine life without. And that daisy? Still tucked behind one ear, now with a custom wing holster for wind safety. Style must never be compromised. One evening, as twilight dipped the leaves in lavender and the crickets broke into their nightly jazz jam, Dandy fluttered onto a branch beside a nervous young caterpillar with big eyes and a broken flower. “I’m not like the others,” the little one whispered. “I don’t want to be just a butterfly. I want to be me—loud and weird and... and sparkly.” Dandy smiled and leaned in close. “Sweetling, don’t you know? You were never meant to blend in. You were born to blind them with brilliance.” He winked, twirled midair, and shouted into the night, “Leaf me be—I’M FABULOUS!” The forest roared in applause. Somewhere, a firefly fainted. And above it all, Dandy soared, a daisy-wielding reminder that transformation isn’t about becoming someone else. It’s about unleashing the magnificent ridiculousness you were always meant to be.     Want to bring a little Dandy energy into your own world? Whether you need a daily reminder to stay bold, weird, and wondrous—or just love bugs with serious main character energy—you can now celebrate Dandy’s daisy-fueled fabulousness with art that flutters straight into your home. From gleaming metal prints and elegant framed editions to a throw pillow that wiggles with charm and a tote bag perfect for petal transport, Dandy’s got your back—and your walls. Because darling, fabulous is a lifestyle.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

My Dragon Bestie

How to Accidentally Befriend a Fire Hazard Everyone knows toddlers have a knack for chaos. Sticky fingers, permanent marker tattoos on the dog, mysterious stains that science has yet to classify — it’s all part of their magic. But no one warned Ellie and Mark that their son Max, age two and a half and already proficient in diplomacy by fruit snack barter, would bring home a dragon. “It’s probably a lizard,” Mark had muttered when Max toddled in from the backyard cradling something green and suspiciously scaly. “A big, weird-eyed lizard. Like, emotionally unstable gecko weird.” But lizards, as a rule, do not belch smoke rings the size of frisbees when they burp. Nor do they respond to the name “Snuggleflame,” which Max insisted upon with the determined fury of a child who’s missed his nap. And certainly no lizard has ever attempted to toast a grilled cheese with its nostrils. The dragon — because that’s what it undeniably was — stood about knee-high with chunky feet, chubby cheeks, and the sort of wings that looked decorative until they weren’t. Its expression was equal parts devilish and delighted, like it knew a thousand secrets and none of them involved nap time. Max and Snuggleflame became inseparable within hours. They shared snacks (Max’s), secrets (mostly babbled gibberish), and bath time (a questionable decision). At night, the dragon curled around Max’s toddler bed like a living plush toy, radiating warmth and purring like a chainsaw on Xanax. Of course, Ellie and Mark tried to be rational about it. “It’s probably a metaphor,” Ellie suggested, sipping wine and watching their child cuddle a creature capable of combustion. “Like an emotional support hallucination. Freud would have loved this.” “Freud didn’t live in a ranch house with flammable drapes,” Mark replied, ducking as Snuggleflame sneezed a puff of glittery soot toward the ceiling fan. They called Animal Control. Animal Control politely suggested Animal Exorcism. They called the pediatrician. The pediatrician offered a therapist. The therapist asked if the dragon was billing under Max’s name or as a dependent. So they gave up. Because the dragon wasn’t going anywhere. And to be honest, after Snuggleflame roasted the neighbor’s leaf pile into the most efficient compost bin the HOA had ever seen, things got easier. Even the dog had stopped hiding in the washing machine. Mostly. But then, just as life started to feel bizarrely normal — Max drawing crayon murals of "Dragonopolis", Ellie fireproofing the furniture, Mark learning to say “Don't flame that” like it was a regular household rule — something changed. Snuggleflame’s eyes got wider. His wings got stretchier. And one morning, with a sound somewhere between a kazoo and a wind tunnel, he looked at Max, belched out a compass, and said — in perfect toddler-accented English — “We has to go home now.” Max blinked. “You mean my room?” The dragon grinned, fanged and wild. “Nope. Dragonland.” Ellie dropped her coffee mug. Mark cursed so hard the baby monitor censored him. Max? He simply smiled, eyes shining with the unshakable faith of a child whose best friend just turned into a mythical Uber. And that, dear reader, is how a suburban family accidentally agreed to a magical relocation clause… led by a dragon and a preschooler in Velcro shoes. To be continued in Part Two: “The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons” The TSA Does Not Approve of Dragons Ellie hadn’t flown since Max was born. She remembered airports as stressful, overpriced food courts with occasional opportunities to be strip-searched by someone named Doug. But nothing — and I mean nothing — prepares you for trying to check a fire-breathing emotional support lizard through security. “Is that… an animal?” the TSA agent asked, in the same tone one might use for discovering a ferret operating a forklift. Her badge read “Karen B.” and her emotional aura screamed “no nonsense, no dragons, not today.” “He’s more of a plus-one,” Ellie said. “He breathes fire, but he doesn’t vape, if that helps.” Snuggleflame, for his part, was wearing Max’s old hoodie and a pair of aviator sunglasses. It did not help. He also carried a satchel with snacks, three crayons, a plastic tiara, and a glowing orb that had started whispering in Latin sometime around the baggage check. “He’s house-trained,” Max chimed in, proudly. “He only toasts things on purpose now.” Mark, who had been silently calculating how many times they could be banned from federal airspace before it counted as a felony, handed over the dragon’s ‘passport.’ It was a laminated construction paper booklet titled OFFISHUL DRAGON ID with a crayon drawing of Snuggleflame smiling next to a stick figure family and the helpful note: I AINT MEAN. Somehow, whether by charm, chaos, or sheer clerical burnout, they got through. There were compromises. Snuggleflame had to ride in cargo. The orb was confiscated by a guy who swore it tried to "reveal his destiny." Max cried for ten minutes until Snuggleflame sent smoke signals through the air vents spelling “I OK.” They landed in Iceland. “Why Iceland?” Mark asked for the fifth time, rubbing his temples with the slow desperation of a man whose toddler had commandeered an ancient being and a boarding gate. “Because it’s the place where the veil between worlds is thinnest,” Ellie replied, reading from a brochure she found in the airport titled Dragons, Gnomes, and You: A Practical Guide to Fae-Proofing Your Backyard. “Also,” Max piped up, “Snuggleflame said the portal smells like marshmallows here.” That, apparently, was that. They checked into a small hostel in a village so picturesque it made Hallmark movies feel insecure. The townspeople were polite in the way that implied they’d seen weirder. No one even blinked when Snuggleflame roasted a whole salmon with a hiccup or when Max used a stick to draw magical glyphs in the frost. The dragon led them into the wilderness at dawn. The terrain was a rugged postcard of mossy hills, icy streams, and a sky that looked like a Nordic mood ring. They hiked for hours — Max carried by turns on Mark’s shoulders or floating slightly above ground courtesy of Snuggleflame’s "hover hugs." Finally, they reached it: a clearing with a stone arch carved with symbols that pulsed faintly. A ring of mushrooms marked the threshold. The air buzzed with a scent that was part cinnamon toast, part ozone, and part “you’re about to make a decision that rewires your life forever.” Snuggleflame turned solemn. “Once we go through… you might never come back. Not the same way. You sure, little buddy?” Max, without hesitation, said, “Only if Mommy and Daddy come too.” Ellie and Mark looked at each other. She shrugged. “You know what? Normal was overrated.” “My office just assigned me to a committee about optimizing spreadsheet color-coding. Let’s roll,” Mark said. With a deep, echoing whoosh, Snuggleflame reared up and breathed a ribbon of blue fire into the arch. The stones glowed. The mushrooms danced. The veil between worlds sighed like an overworked barista and opened. The family stepped through together, hand in claw in hand. They landed in Dragonland. Not a metaphor. Not a theme park. A place where the skies shimmered like soap bubbles on steroids and the trees had opinions. Everything sparkled — aggressively so. It was like Lisa Frank had binge-watched Game of Thrones while microdosing peyote and then built a kingdom. The inhabitants greeted Max as though he were royalty. Turns out, he kind of was. Through a series of absolutely legitimate dream-based contracts, prophecy pancakes, and interpretive dance rituals, Max had been appointed "The Snuggle-Chosen." A hero foretold to bring emotional maturity and sticker-based communication to an otherwise flame-obsessed society. Snuggleflame became a full-sized dragon within days. He was magnificent — sleek, winged, capable of lifting minivans, and still perfectly willing to let Max ride on his back wearing nothing but dinosaur pajamas and a bike helmet. Ellie opened a fireproof preschool. Mark started a podcast called "Corporate Survival for the Newly Magical." They built a cottage next to a talking creek that offered life advice in the form of passive-aggressive haikus. Things were weird. They were also perfect. And no one — not a single soul — ever said, “You’re being childish,” because in Dragonland, the childish ran the place. To be continued in Part Three: “Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts” Civic Responsibility and the Ethical Use of Dragon Farts Life in Dragonland was never boring. In fact, it was never even quiet. Between Snuggleflame’s daily aerial dance routines (featuring synchronized spark sneezes) and the enchanted jellybean geyser behind the house, “peaceful” was something they left behind at the airport. Still, the family had settled into something resembling a routine. Max, now the de facto ambassador of Human-Toddler Relations, spent his mornings finger-painting treaties and leading compassion exercises for the dragon hatchlings. His leadership style could best be described as “chaotic benevolence with juice breaks.” Ellie ran a successful daycare for magical creatures with behavioral issues. The tagline: “We Hug First, Ask Questions Later.” She had mastered the art of calming down a tantruming gnome with a glow stick and learned exactly how many glitter-bombs it took to distract a tantrum-prone unicorn with boundary issues (three and a half). Mark, meanwhile, had been elected to the Dragonland Council under the “reluctantly competent human” clause. His campaign platform included phrases like “Let’s stop setting fire to the mail” and “Fiscal responsibility: it’s not just for wizards.” Against all odds, it worked. He now chaired the Committee on Ethical Flame Use, where he spent most of his time writing policy to prevent dragons from using their farts as tactical weather devices. “We had a drought last month,” Mark muttered at the kitchen table one morning, scribbling on a parchment. “And instead of summoning rain, Glork farted a cloud the size of Cleveland into existence. It snowed pickles, Ellie. For twelve hours.” “They were delicious, though,” Max chirped, chewing one casually like it was a normal Tuesday. Then came The Incident. One sunny morning, Max and Snuggleflame were doing their usual stunt flights over the Glitter Dunes when Max accidentally dropped his lunch — a peanut butter sandwich enchanted with a happiness charm. The sandwich fell directly onto the ceremonial altar of the Grumblebeards, a cranky race of lava goblins with sensitive noses and no sense of humor. They declared war. On whom, exactly, was unclear — the child, the sandwich, the very concept of joy — but war was declared nonetheless. The Dragonland Council convened an emergency summit. Mark put on his “serious” robe (which featured fewer bedazzled stars than the casual one), Ellie brought her crisis glitter, and Max… brought Snuggleflame. “We’ll negotiate,” said Mark. “We’ll dazzle them,” said Ellie. “We’ll weaponize cuteness,” said Max, his eyes practically sparkling with tactical whimsy. And so they did. After three hours of increasingly confusing diplomacy, several emotional monologues about peanut allergies, and a full toddler-led puppet show reenacting “How Sandwiches Are Made With Love,” the Grumblebeards agreed to a ceasefire… if Snuggleflame could fart a cloud shaped like their ancestral totem: a slightly melting lava cat named Shlorp. Snuggleflame, after three helpings of spicy moonberries and a dramatic tail stretch, delivered. The resulting cloud was magnificent. It purred. It glowed. It made fart sounds in four-part harmony. The Grumblebeards wept openly and handed over a peace contract written in crayon. Dragonland was saved. Max was promoted to Supreme Hugmaster of the Inter-Mythical Council. Ellie received the Glitterheart Medal for Emotional Conflict Resolution. Mark was finally allowed to install smoke detectors without being called a “buzzkill.” Years passed. Max grew. So did Snuggleflame — who now sported a monocle, a saddle, and an unshakeable fondness for dad jokes. They became living legends, flying between dimensions, solving magical disputes, spreading laughter, and occasionally dropping enchanted sandwiches onto unsuspecting picnic-goers. But every year, on the anniversary of The Incident, they returned home to that very same stone arch in Iceland. They’d share stories, toast marshmallows on Snuggleflame’s backdraft, and watch the skies together, wondering who else might need a little more magic… or a cuddle-powered ceasefire. And for anyone who asks if it really happened — the dragons, the portals, the diplomacy powered by hugs — Max has just one answer: “You ever seen a toddler lie about a dragon bestie with that much confidence? Didn’t think so.” The End. (Or maybe just the beginning.)     Take a Piece of Dragonland Home 🐉 If “My Dragon Bestie” made your inner child do a little happy dance (or snort-laugh into your coffee), you can bring that magical mischief into your real world! Whether you want to cozy up with a fleece blanket that’s as warm as Snuggleflame’s belly, or add some whimsical fire-breathing flair to your space with a metal print or framed wall art, we’ve got you covered. Send a smile (and maybe a giggle-snort) with a greeting card, or go big and bold with a storytelling centerpiece like our vibrant tapestry. Every item features the high-detail, whimsical world of “My Dragon Bestie” — a perfect way to bring fantasy, fun, and fireproof friendship into your home or to share with the dragon-lover in your life.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Cradle of Copper Veins

There are stories the trees tell long after the last leaf has fallen. Stories whispered not in words, but in sighs of wind and flickers of gold that dance between branches. And if you know how to listen — really listen — you’ll hear the tale of a fairy named Cress, who came into this world nestled in a leaf so grand it rivaled the sails of a galleon, glowing with the luster of hammered copper. Cress wasn’t born like other fairies. No flick of a wand, no moonbeam ceremony. One morning, just as autumn was stretching its fingers into the roots of the woods, a sleepy breeze tumbled through the Great Hollow, and there she was — curled up in the crook of a leaf like a blessing too delicate for noise. Her hair was spun sunlight, her wings etched from morning frost, and her face was the kind that could convince even the crankiest mushroom to smile. The elder fairies didn’t quite know what to make of her. "Too quiet," muttered Bramble Fernthistle, adjusting his acorn monocle. "No sparkle. No twinkle. Probably defective." But Cress just smiled in her sleep, utterly unmoved by fairy bureaucracy. Her leaf cradle had fallen from the ancient maple, a tree known to whisper to stars. And so, some believed she wasn’t born at all — but sent. By whom? Theories abounded. The stars? The wind? A goddess with a sense of humor and a flair for the dramatic? Only one thing was certain: Cress had a vibe. A powerful, soul-hugging, peace-tinted kind of vibe. The kind that made squirrels pause mid-acorn. That made spiders crochet doilies instead of webs. That made the morning dew linger just a little longer to kiss her forehead. And then, the dream started spreading. At first, only forest creatures felt it — a lightness in their paws, a softness in their heartbeats. Then, the trees began to hum lullabies without wind. Next came the clouds, lowering just enough to catch a glimpse of her as they passed. Even the grumpy badger near the western brook was spotted knitting something that might’ve been a scarf. He’d deny it to his dying breath, of course. But the yarn was pink and had glitter in it. “She’s... changing us,” said Maplewish, the oldest of the grove. “With sleep. And silence. And possibly drool.” But it was more than that. It was presence. This tiny, dreaming fairy, in her copper-leaf cradle, radiated such gentle purpose that even time slowed down to admire her. She didn’t ask. She didn’t preach. She simply *was.* And in her being, the forest remembered who it was supposed to be. And then, one morning, she woke up. Cress’s first breath was soft — like the exhale of a songbird in a dream. Her eyes fluttered open beneath the dappled amber light of morning, and the entire forest held its breath. Even the breeze paused, unsure if it was appropriate to move now that she was looking. Her gaze didn’t scan the canopy or jump to the curious throngs of forest watchers perched atop mushrooms, owls, and the backs of patient deer. Instead, she stared with hypnotized wonder at the edge of her copper-veined leaf, her tiny fingers tracing its ridges like they were the edges of a secret map. “She’s... awake,” gasped Thistlemop, a woodsprite with anxiety issues and a flair for the dramatic. He immediately fainted into a puff of glitter, which was honestly not that uncommon for him. “Bless the bark, what do we do now?” someone whispered. “Do we clap? Bow? Offer her the ceremonial acorn?” But Cress didn’t ask for pomp or parades. She sat up slowly, yawned a yawn so wide it made a nearby chipmunk pass out from cuteness, and blinked at the world as if seeing it for the first time and deciding it might be worth forgiving. She had the kind of aura that turned bee stings into butterflies. No one knew why. Maybe it was her silence — the way she listened before speaking. Or maybe it was how she giggled at dandelion seeds like they were stand-up comedians. Either way, by noon that day, the Council of Elders had declared a full fairy holiday. They called it “Cressmas.” It had very little structure, involved a lot of spontaneous naps, and a cake made of dew and wild honey. And from that moment on, the Forest changed. Animals that had held grudges for decades forgave each other. A squirrel and a raven opened a bookstore. Moss began growing in intricate, artful spirals instead of the usual blob formations. Even the mushrooms glowed brighter, murmuring little psalms in their sleep. And the fairies? The fairies, once obsessed with sparkle quotas and wing inspections, stopped fussing long enough to notice the way the stars blinked a little slower over Cress’s leaf. She didn’t speak for several moons. She didn’t have to. Her expressions spoke entire novels. Her laughter unknotted years of forest tension. And when she finally did speak, it was to the old willow who asked her what she dreamed about. “Warmth,” she said. “And something that hasn’t happened yet.” That night, an aurora bloomed in colors the sky had forgotten it owned. From then on, Cress became the pulse of the woods. Not a ruler — heavens no. She didn’t even like chairs. But a presence. A rhythm. When she was near, you remembered what joy tasted like. You remembered to breathe slower. You forgave the ants for being obnoxious, and you let the raindrops roll down your nose without wiping them off in irritation. And the thing was, she *grew.* Not in size (fairy babies are notoriously stubborn about that), but in essence. Her eyes became galaxies of green and gold. Her wings shimmered with patterns that matched the phases of the moon. Her laughter caused flowers to bloom off-season. She once smiled at a frog so warmly that it developed complex emotions and started writing poetry. But as Cress’s magic deepened, so did her knowing. She began to wander. Always with kindness. Always with her leaf, which had curled into the shape of a gentle sled. She visited every root, every rock, every burrow and blossom. Creatures she’d never seen leaned forward when she passed. Foxes bowed. Owls wept. Even the grumpy badger made her a mug with her name on it. It said “Little One, Big Deal.” He denied it was sentimental, of course. Said it was a tax write-off. Eventually, Cress arrived at the edge of the forest, where the tall grass met the world beyond. She tilted her head. The wind tousled her hair in question. She didn’t speak. She simply stepped beyond the wild bramble, dragging her copper cradle behind her — into the Great Beyond where the forest’s hum couldn’t quite reach. “Where’s she going?” asked a curious beetle. “Everywhere,” said Maplewish, wiping a tear of sap from his cheek. “She’s what happens when the forest remembers its heart. But hearts don’t stay still, do they?” They didn’t. And neither did she. From the cities with sirens to deserts that hummed at dusk, Cress wandered. People never remembered her clearly — only that they had wept without knowing why, or danced without knowing how. Coffee tasted sweeter. Tempers felt slower. Strangers gave each other snacks. Dogs stopped barking at mailmen. And all across the land, wherever she had passed, autumn leaves curled slightly into cradles, waiting for someone else — someone gentle, and wild, and quietly powerful — to remember who they were. The years passed, as they tend to do — sneaky little things, fluttering past like moths in the dusk. Cress walked through them all barefoot and curious, never in a hurry, never quite belonging to time. Wherever she wandered, something happened — not big, explosive somethings. No fireworks. No thunder. Just... small shifts. Quiet revolutions. In the sleepy town of Mirebell, a cobbler began leaving one extra shoe outside his shop every morning. He said it was for "the tired." He didn't specify who. He didn’t need to. In the mountains of Nareth, where the winds carved stone like gossiping grandmothers, wild goats stopped headbutting each other for dominance and started organizing cliffside yoga. In the farmlands of Brindlehusk, a young boy whose heart had grown too heavy from loss woke up one morning to find an amber-colored leaf cradling a single pearlescent tear on his pillow. It was dry. And so, for the first time in months, were his cheeks. And in all these places, there were whispers of a girl — a child, or a woman, or a spirit, no one could quite agree — whose presence made you want to call your grandmother and tell her you loved her, even if she was already dead. Especially if she was already dead. “She’s made of lullabies,” someone once said. “No,” said another. “She’s made of the silence between lullabies.” One autumn, in a city made of steel and cracked pavement, Cress found herself standing beside a woman in a power suit who looked like she'd forgotten how to cry. They waited for the same bus. The woman had earbuds in and an expression like a snapped pencil. But Cress — wearing a crown of dandelions and a sweater knitted from something very much like moonlight — just stood beside her, gently humming a note that made a nearby pigeon forget how to scowl. When the woman looked over, Cress met her eyes with that look. That look that says: I see you, and you don’t owe the world another performance. And something broke, gently. The woman sat down on the curb and sobbed into her coffee. It tasted better after. And still, Cress moved on. Always on. Her copper-veined leaf, now worn and glossy like an heirloom spoon, trailed behind her like a promise — rustling with stories not yet told. She never sought fame, though her legend grew. She never stayed long, though some swore they still saw her in the corners of their favorite memories. Eventually — and inevitably — she returned to the forest. Not because she had to. Not because the wind whispered her name or the mushrooms staged a union strike in protest of her absence (although they had considered it). She returned because love always circles back, like rivers, like stories, like the moon to its favorite phase. By now, the forest had changed. Grown taller, more knotted in places, but also softer. The grumpy badger had opened a therapy burrow. The bookstore run by the squirrel and raven had a poetry section curated by frogs. And the trees — oh, the trees — they leaned in, their branches trembling with reverence as Cress stepped once more into the amber light beneath their boughs. She looked older. Not old. Just... fuller. More galaxy than girl now. Her wings shimmered with memories. Her eyes held galaxies she hadn’t been born with. She no longer slept in the cradle of copper veins. But she carried it still, curled gently over her shoulder like a shawl woven from goodbye and gratitude. “You came back,” gasped Maplewish, now stooped and silvered with lichen. “I was always here,” she said, and kissed his bark. And then, one morning — golden, as if the sun had remembered how to fall in love — Cress walked into the center of the grove and lay down upon her leaf. Not to sleep, this time. But to root. The leaf curled up around her like it had been waiting centuries for this moment. The wind cradled her name and let it echo one last time. The animals watched, not with sorrow, but reverence. Something bigger than grief bloomed in their bellies — a feeling like finishing a perfect book and hugging it to your chest. And where she lay, a tree grew. It wasn’t like any other tree. Its trunk shimmered like burnished bronze, its leaves whisper-thin and luminous, curling like parchment in the wind. Flowers bloomed on its branches year-round — forget-me-nots, wild violets, even the occasional curious mushroom. Its roots hummed lullabies. And at its base, nestled in moss, was the copper-veined leaf, forever cradling a memory, forever becoming. They say if you sit beneath it long enough, you’ll remember a part of yourself you forgot how to love. You’ll find yourself weeping without knowing why. You’ll leave lighter than you came. And just sometimes, when the light hits right and your heart is quiet enough — you’ll see her. Not as a ghost. Not as a fairy. Not even as a girl. But as a feeling. As hope. As the whisper between songs. And when you rise to go, you’ll carry her with you — like warmth. Like wonder. Like home.     If the magic of Cress still lingers in your chest — if her warmth, her quiet wonder, and her copper-veined cradle whispered something to your soul — you’re not alone. And you don’t have to leave her behind. Her spirit now lives on in a collection of inspired creations, ready to bring a little forest magic into your own sacred space. Adorn your walls with the story’s essence through a canvas print or a dreamy, flowing tapestry that lets the golden hues of autumn cradle your room. Curl up with her comfort woven into a throw pillow or wrap yourself in wonder beneath a duvet cover that feels like a forest lullaby. For a touch of magic on the move, carry the story with you in a lovely tote bag, perfect for dreamers and wanderers alike. However you choose to keep her near, may her presence remind you to slow down, breathe deep, and believe in the quiet strength of softness.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Twilight Tickle Sprite

In the hush of the Golden Glade — that rare patch of forest where twilight always lingers just a little too long and the frogs sound like they've had a few too many dandelion brews — there lived a sprite named Luma. Luma was, for lack of a better phrase, a professional instigator. Not malicious, mind you. Just the sort of trickster who braided squirrel tails together when they napped too close, whispered "your fly is down" to passing satyrs (who didn’t wear trousers to begin with), and left trails of glittery snail slime across picnic blankets. She considered it her sacred duty to keep the forest fun. “Spring isn’t spring unless someone’s giggling too hard to breathe,” she often declared, which was a bold claim for someone three apples tall with moss in her hair and daisies tangled in her wings. On the Vernal Sneeze — the very first day of spring when pollen explodes off trees like confetti from a cannon — Luma was especially energized. She’d spent the winter plotting new nonsense, her tiny journal full of plans like “frog choir remix” and “unicorn armpit tickle ambush.” Her latest goal? Cause 100 genuine belly laughs before moonrise. She wore her “mirth crown” (woven from ivy and heavily bedazzled with stolen beetle shells) and her favorite purple petal gown, which rustled like sarcastic applause every time she moved. By midday, she’d already made the mushroom council spit tea through their pores with a pop-up puppet show about toadstool taxes. She’d gotten three grumpy hedgehogs to do the can-can with a clever bit of reverse psychology involving jam. Even the melancholy oak — who hadn’t smiled since the acorn tax scandal of 1802 — had rustled its leaves in what some called laughter and others called mild wind. Either way, it counted. Then came the most delicious opportunity of all: a wandering bard. Human. Handsome in a hopeless way, like he got dressed in the dark with only a lute and too much confidence. Luma perched on a lilypad, wings fluttering with anticipation. “Ooooh, this’ll be good,” she muttered, cracking her knuckles. “Time to make a mortal blush so hard he turns into a beetroot.” She launched into action, throwing her voice like a spring breeze. “Hey bard boy,” she cooed. “Bet you can’t rhyme ‘thistle’ with ‘booty whistle.’” The bard stopped mid-stanza. “Who goes there?” Luma grinned. Her eyes sparkled like wet petals in sunbeam soup. This was going to be fun. Lutes, Loot, and Loopholes The bard’s name, as it turned out, was Sondrin Merriwag — a name far too dashing for someone whose boots squeaked when he walked and who carried a satchel full of old cheese and soggy poetry scrolls. He was journeying through the Golden Glade “in search of inspiration,” which was bard-code for “please someone give me a plot.” Luma found this absolutely delicious. She flitted into view dramatically, perching on a thick moss-covered branch like a vaudeville queen about to start a roast. “Inspiration? Sweetie, your doublets have more drama than your lyrics. That last song rhymed ‘longing’ with ‘belonging’ — are you trying to seduce a goose?” Sondrin blinked. “You’re… a fairy?” “Technically a sprite. We’re less sparkles, more snark.” She gave him an exaggerated curtsy, which, in her petal-skirted state, looked like a blooming flower doing jazz hands. “I’m Luma. Mischief artisan. Whimsy technician. Certified giggle dealer. And you, sir, have the confused expression of a man who’s just realized his pants are on backwards.” He looked down. They weren’t. But for a horrifying second, he wasn’t sure. “You come into my glade,” Luma continued, circling him slowly like a cat with gossip, “with that lute tuned like a drunken badger’s mandolin and lyrics that make the bluebells wilt. You need help. Desperately. And lucky for you, I’m feeling generous. Spring does that to me — hormones and pollen and the urge to humiliate strangers.” Sondrin frowned. “I don't need help, I need—” “—an audience that doesn’t wish for earplugs? Agreed.” Luma clapped her hands, summoning a choir of frogs who immediately began croaking something suspiciously like “Bohemian Rhapsody.” Sondrin stared. “Did they just harmonize ‘Galileo’?” “They’re unionized now. It’s a whole thing.” Within moments, Luma had fully hijacked his “inspirational journey.” She stuffed his lute case with chirping crickets (“percussive backup”), replaced his belt buckle with a beetle (“name’s Gary, he’s clingy”), and enchanted his boots to break into spontaneous Morris dancing every time he stepped on a daffodil. Which was often, given his tendency to monologue through flower patches. “Stop that!” he yelled, as his legs began doing a high-kick jig of their own accord. “Can’t,” Luma said, sipping nectar from a thimble. “Spring contract. Any mortal who sings off-key within 300 feet of a fairy glade gets cursed with rhythmic footwear. It’s in the bylaws.” “There are bylaws?” “Oh darling,” she said with a sly grin. “There’s a bureaucracy.” Still, Sondrin didn’t leave. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps it was the fact that his boots now only walked toward Luma regardless of his intent. Perhaps he was starting to enjoy the chaos — or her grin — more than he wanted to admit. She had a laugh like a windchime and eyes that made moss seem fashionable. And, whether she was pranking him or perched on a daisy doing air guitar with a twig, she radiated something he hadn’t felt in years: joy. Wild, irreverent, uncontrollable joy. By nightfall, they were seated together in a crocus field. Luma lounged in a tulip chair, licking honey off her fingers. Sondrin, defeated and somehow enchanted, was strumming a revised tune on his lute. It rhymed “glade” with “played” and featured a cheeky line about beetles in one’s underthings. “Better,” Luma said. “Still basic. But it’s got more butt.” He blinked. “More what?” “Soul, darling. Sass. A good song needs cheek. Yours used to sound like you were apologizing to the wind.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “But now you’ve been glitterbombed by Spring. You’ve tasted chaos. You’ve felt the twitch of a flower-given wedgie. There’s no going back.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re mad.” “Oh, absolutely. But admit it — this is more fun than serenading a goat in a tavern.” He blushed. “How did you—” “YouTube. Long story.” The glade glowed faintly as fireflies began their nightly rave. A hedgehog in sunglasses dropped the beat. Somewhere, a squirrel DJ spun tiny records made from walnut halves. And under the pink haze of moonrise, Luma flopped backwards into the grass, humming tunelessly and utterly pleased with herself. Sondrin stared up at the stars and sighed. “What now?” Luma sat up, eyes wide and wicked. “Oh honey,” she purred. “Now it’s time for the Tickle Trials.” “I’m sorry, the what?” But she was already gone, trailing giggles and petal dust as she vanished into the trees. The Tickle Trials (And Other Inconvenient Truths) Sondrin awoke to find his face painted like a butterfly, his eyebrows braided, and his lute replaced with a particularly smug-looking squirrel clutching a kazoo. He blinked twice, coughed up a glitter petal, and sat up to a scene of absolute woodland anarchy. The Golden Glade had been transformed overnight. Ivy vines had been woven into grand spectator stands. Glowworms hung from branches like fairy lights. A large patch of moss had been raked into a makeshift arena, with tiny mushrooms forming a boundary and a slug with a whistle serving as referee. Dozens of forest creatures — badgers in bonnets, frogs with monocles, raccoons in sequined vests — sat cheering and eating suspiciously crunchy snacks. And in the center, twirling dramatically like a chaos ballerina in a flower tutu, was Luma. “Welcome, traveler of tune and tragically misplaced rhymes,” she bellowed, voice amplified by a magically modified snail shell. “You have entered the Spring Court. Today, you face the final challenge of your artistic redemption: THE TICKLE TRIALS.” Sondrin blinked. “That’s not a real thing.” “It is now,” she said brightly. “Tradition starts somewhere, love.” “And if I refuse?” “Then your boots will tap dance you off a cliff while singing ‘It’s Raining Men’ in falsetto.” He gulped. “Right. Proceed.” Trial One was dubbed “Guffaw Gauntlet.” Sondrin was blindfolded with a daisy chain and subjected to thirty seconds of being poked by invisible feather sprites while a choir of giggling chipmunks recited his worst lyrics back to him in mocking falsetto. He howled. He squealed. He begged for mercy and got hit with a pie made of whipped dandelions instead. The crowd roared with approval. Trial Two was “Snort and Sprint” — an obstacle course where he had to balance a wobbly pudding on his head while answering trivia questions about fairy culture (“What is the official color of Spring Mischief Bureaucracy?” “Chartreuse Confusion!”) while being tickled by sentient vines and relentlessly heckled by a goose named Kevin. He fell. A lot. At one point the pudding yelled encouragement, which didn’t help. By the time he stumbled into the arena for the third and final trial, he was covered in flower jam, had half a beetle in his sock, and was laughing so hard he couldn’t form sentences. Trial Three was simple: make Luma laugh. “You think you can break me?” she teased, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like stormclouds about to misbehave. “I invented the giggle loop.” Sondrin straightened. He brushed pollen out of his hair, shook glitter from his boots, and picked up his lute (the real one, returned now and mysteriously cleaner than ever). He strummed a chord. “Ahem,” he began. “This one’s called ‘The Ballad of the Booty Beetle.’” The audience went still. The snail referee raised one slimy brow. Sondrin sang. It was absurd. Rhymes like “mandible scandal” and “wiggle giggle scandal” cascaded through the glade. His lute solos were punctuated by kazoo bursts from the backup squirrel. The chorus involved choreographed toe-wiggling. He threw in a high note that startled an owl into premature molting. And Luma? She laughed. She laughed so hard she snorted dandelion dust. She laughed until her wings drooped. She laughed until she had to sit on a mushroom, tears streaming down her cheeks. She laughed like someone remembering every joy all at once. And when the song ended, she clapped wildly, jumped to her feet, and tackled him in a hug that smelled like honey and mischief. “You did it!” she crowed. “You broke the trials. You made a whole glade snort.” “You made me desperate,” he wheezed, holding her like a man both victorious and thoroughly humiliated. “Your glade is terrifying.” “Isn’t it divine?” They flopped back into the grass as the Spring Court erupted in celebration. A frog DJ dropped the beat. The raccoons popped tiny confetti poppers. Someone brought out thimble-sized cakes that tasted suspiciously like tequila. “So what now?” Sondrin asked, one eyebrow arched. “Do I get knighted with a butter knife? Receive a medal shaped like a flower butt?” Luma rolled over to face him, eyes soft now. “Now you stay, if you want. Play songs that make fairies cackle. Write ballads about bee politics and gnome divorce. Make weird music that makes trees dance. Or don’t. You’re free.” He looked at her — the sprite with petals in her hair and mischief in her blood — and smiled. “I’ll stay. But only if I get a title.” “Oh, absolutely,” she said. “Henceforth, you shall be known as… Sir Gigglenote, Bard of Butt Rhymes and Occasional Dignity.” And so he stayed. And the glade was never quieter again. And every spring, when the pollen danced and the snails rallied and the daffodils yodeled jazz, the Twilight Tickle Sprite and her ridiculous bard filled the woods with chaos, kisses, and the kind of laughter that made squirrels fall out of trees in delight. Fin.     ✨ Bring Luma Home — Mischief Included ✨ If you fell in love with the chaotic charm of Luma and her giggle-fueled glade, you can bring a sprinkle of her spring magic into your world. Whether you're feathering your fairy nest or gifting a bit of enchanted sass to someone who needs a smile, we've got you covered: Framed Print – Add forest sparkle and sprite vibes to your wall. Warning: may cause spontaneous snickering. Tapestry – Drape your world in whimsy. Perfect for treehouses, reading nooks, or unexpected bard ambushes. Throw Pillow – Hug a fairy. Literally. Ideal for mid-prank naps or pollen season lounging. Fleece Blanket – Wrap yourself in cozy enchantment. May induce dreams of musical raccoons and glittery jam. Greeting Card – Send someone a sprite-sized dose of delight. Bonus: no pollen inside (probably). Because sometimes, what your life really needs… is a fairy with boundary issues and a wardrobe made of petals.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Tails from the Train Station

Barkley Gets the Boot Barkley W. Barkington was not your average Yorkie. He wasn’t bred for handbags, and he sure as hell didn’t take orders. No, Barkley was born with wanderlust in his whiskers and mischief stitched into his teeny-tiny underpants. If you ever doubted a ten-pound dog could sneak past five border patrols and seduce an entire bachelorette party, you clearly hadn’t met Barkley. He’d been on the move since the “Incident at the Groomer’s” — an unfortunate misunderstanding involving a shampoo bottle, an unlocked gate, and a schnauzer named Judy with a tattoo on her butt that said “Sniff Here.” Barkley didn’t do regrets. He did trains. Specifically, he did train stations, because that’s where you found the best stories, the worst coffee, and people so distracted they’d never notice a Yorkie lifting a ham sandwich out of their carry-on. Today’s platform of chaos was Station 7½ — a place that only appeared to those down on their luck or desperately in need of a second chance. Barkley fit both categories. With his brass pocket watch ticking against his chest and a coat that smelled of wet leaves and French cigars, he perched atop his battered suitcase like a prince on exile. Not sad, no — defiant. Stylishly defiant. “You can’t be here,” said a squat man in a transit vest, kicking at the suitcase. Barkley raised a brow (just one, he practiced it in the mirror), adjusted his beret, and farted in protest. The kind of fart that said, ‘Sir, I have eaten international cheeses and outlived three landlords. Back off.’ The man walked away muttering, possibly swearing. Barkley wasn’t sure. He was too busy eyeing a mysterious figure approaching with a trench coat two sizes too big and a limp that screamed “I have stories and probable warrants.” Barkley’s ears twitched. This was how it always started — with someone strange, something risky, and the faint scent of pickled onions and forbidden freedom. He sniffed the air. Opportunity was approaching, probably drunk, possibly cursed, and definitely about to change his life. The Limping Stranger and the Loaf of Destiny The man with the trench coat didn’t walk so much as stagger with attitude. His limp was real — you could tell by the way he winced every third step — but the rest of his swagger was pure showmanship. Barkley narrowed his eyes. That coat was filled with secrets. Possibly snacks. Definitely both. “You waiting for Train 23?” the man asked, his voice gravel dipped in gin and regret. Barkley, of course, didn’t answer. He was a Yorkie. But he didn’t need to speak — his thousand-yard stare into the fogged horizon said everything: I’ve seen things. I’ve peed on statues older than your lineage. Talk wisely, mortal. “Thought so,” the man nodded, dropping his duffel bag to the ground. It hit with a clunk. A suspiciously metallic clunk. Barkley side-eyed the bag. That was either a very small submarine sandwich press or the kind of device that got you banned from three countries and one pet expo. Either way, Barkley was intrigued. The man sat beside him on the bench, breathing heavily like he’d just walked through a mile of existential crisis. “Name’s Vince,” he said, not looking up. “I used to be somebody. I sold bread. Big bread. Loaves so good they got banned in Utah.” Barkley’s ears perked. Bread. Now we were speaking his language. “They said my sourdough was too sensual. Can you believe that? Said the crumb had a ‘forbidden vibe.’” Vince snorted. “That’s when I knew I had to leave. A man can’t thrive in a world that fears moistness.” Barkley nodded solemnly. Moistness was a misunderstood frontier. As Vince rambled about yeast activism and his brief stint hiding in a vegan co-op under the alias “Brent,” Barkley’s eyes locked onto the real prize — a crusty corner of a still-warm loaf poking out from Vince’s bag like a siren calling to sea-weary canines. He licked his lips and tried to play it cool. “You know what your eyes say?” Vince whispered suddenly, turning to him with terrifying clarity. “They say you’ve been kicked out of better places than this. They say you’re just like me.” Barkley gave the faintest wag of his tail. Not confirmation. Not denial. Just… an acknowledgement. The same way monks acknowledge enlightenment. Or raccoons acknowledge trash bins. “You know what I think?” Vince continued. “I think Train 23 doesn’t exist. I think this whole station’s a metaphor. For life. For the fact that sometimes, even the smallest creature in a big coat deserves a damn ride.” Barkley had to admit, he was starting to vibe with this delusional bread philosopher. Maybe it was the way Vince saw right through the fluff. Or maybe it was the warm baguette air escaping from his duffel like a Parisian fart whispering promises of carbohydrates and mild euphoria. Then it happened — the moment Barkley’s life swerved off course like a pug on roller skates. A woman appeared on the platform. Not just any woman. She had an umbrella, a velvet cape, and the energy of someone who carried loose change in antique lockets. Her hair defied gravity. Her voice defied gender. She was glorious. “Vince,” she growled. “You brought the dog.” “He brought himself,” Vince shrugged. “You know how these things go.” “He’s wearing boots,” she hissed. “You can’t just recruit a dog because he has footwear.” “I didn’t recruit him. He’s freelance.” Barkley stood and gave a long, deliberate stretch. This was his moment. He let one boot squeak dramatically on the bench. Then he jumped down, sauntered to the woman’s feet, and very deliberately peed on her umbrella. She stared down at him. Then she laughed — a long, slow laugh that smelled like licorice and bad decisions. “You’ve got moxie, mutt,” she said. “Alright. He’s in.” “In what?” Barkley thought, ears twitching. That’s when he saw it: a small brass coin slipped into his suitcase by Vince, etched with the number 23 and a paw print surrounded by a compass. Not a train number. A mission. The woman snapped her fingers. A portal opened. Not some CGI puff of glitter — a full-on dimensional tear in space that smelled faintly of cinnamon and bureaucratic despair. Vince picked up his duffel. The woman opened a suitcase that barked back. Barkley adjusted his scarf. He had no idea where they were going. But wherever it was, it beat the hell out of sitting on cold benches and wondering if destiny forgot your stop. With one last heroic bark (that sounded suspiciously like a muffled belch), Barkley leapt into the portal, boots first, eyes wide, tail high. Goodbye, platform 7½. Hello, chaos. The Con of Corgistan The transition through the portal was less of a floaty-windy magic moment and more like getting licked aggressively by time itself. Barkley’s boots hit solid ground with a squelch. Not snow. Not mud. Something else. Something... frothy? Barkley looked down and groaned. Espresso foam. He was standing in a street made of coffee. Literally. The buildings were porcelain cups stacked to skyscraper height. Lampposts were bendy silver spoons. A café sign swung lazily overhead, declaring in bold gold script: Welcome to Corgistan: Land of Short Legs and Long Memories. “Where the hell are we?” Barkley barked, but of course nobody answered. Except Vince, who popped in behind him with a flatbread in one hand and a grenade-sized coffee bean in the other. “Corgistan,” Vince said, as if this was obvious. “Ruled by the most corrupt line of royal canines since Queen Lady Piddleton II declared martial law over chew toys.” Barkley blinked. “You're making that up.” “Probably,” Vince shrugged. “But here's the thing: they need us. Their espresso reserves are tainted. Someone’s slipped decaf into the royal supply. You know what happens to a corgi monarch without caffeine?” “Nap riots?” “Exactly.” That’s when she appeared again — the mysterious woman with the velvet cape and a tendency to materialize during plot pivots. This time, she was astride a scooter powered entirely by drama and passive-aggressive huffing. “Mission brief,” she said, flinging a scroll that unrolled with dramatic length and a confetti cannon burst at the end. “You’re to infiltrate the palace as an ambassador of the Free Paw Society. Seduce the Baroness. Bribe the steward. Steal the Sacred Bean.” “You want me to seduce a corgi?” Barkley asked, aghast. “Baroness isn't a corgi,” she clarified. “She’s a Dalmatian with abandonment issues and a fondness for monocles. Barkley, this is literally in your wheelhouse.” “This feels morally grey.” “You're wearing a trench coat and bandana, love. You are morally grey.” Within hours, Barkley was bathed, buffed, and stuffed into a double-breasted diplomatic uniform that made him look like a tiny general who moonlighted as a cabaret singer. He didn’t walk into the palace — he pranced. He gave just enough pomp to pass as official but not enough to look constipated. The Baroness was waiting. Spot-covered, slightly drunk, and swaddled in velvet and disapproval. Her monocle glinted like a villain origin story. “You’re shorter than I expected,” she sniffed. “Compensated by charm and a really nice watch,” Barkley replied smoothly, giving her the full-fluff head tilt. It worked. She barked out a laugh — the kind that sounded like therapy and tequila. Over the next two hours, Barkley worked his magic. He complimented her taxidermy art. He pretended to care about royal spreadsheets. He listened with wide, soulful eyes as she recounted the time she fell in love with a pug named Stefano who left her for a pastry chef. “He was flaky,” she whispered, voice thick with pain and metaphor. Then, at the peak of emotional vulnerability, as she clutched her goblet of triple-shot tiramisu liqueur, Barkley slipped away. Down the hall. Through the pantry. Past a guard playing Sudoku with a ferret. Into the vault. There it sat. The Sacred Bean. It pulsed gently with caffeine and political intrigue. Barkley reached for it, paws trembling. “Halt!” Shit. The steward. A pit bull in formal robes. He looked like someone who once bit a priest and blamed it on allergies. Barkley did what any professional would do. He farted. Not a cute fart. No. This was an event. A long, slow honk of fermented cheese and travel stress, followed by a look of utter innocence. The pit bull froze. He blinked. Barkley swore he saw a tear form. The dog turned and fled. Barkley grabbed the bean and ran. He burst out of the palace, cape flying behind him (he’d found it in the hallway and decided it completed the look). Vince was waiting at the exit, holding what appeared to be a hoverboard made from baguettes and espresso motors. “You got it?” Vince grinned. Barkley held up the bean. “No decaf for the masses!” “To revolution!” Vince shouted. They rode off across the sky, yelling insults at the royals and leaving a trail of croissant crumbs in their wake. The Sacred Bean glowed brighter in Barkley’s paw, signaling change — and possibly indigestion. Back on the train platform that only appeared to those in need, a new bench waited. A new suitcase. A new story to begin. But for now, Barkley and Vince flew into the dusk, fueled by chaos, caffeine, and the undeniable truth that freedom sometimes comes wearing boots and a beret. And yes, Barkley peed on a Corgistan flag on the way out. Because legends aren't born. They're brewed.     Inspired by Barkley’s daring leaps across platforms, portals, and pastry-filled revolutions? Bring home a piece of the legend with our exclusive "Tails from the Train Station" collection. Whether you want to hang the adventure on your wall, send it to a friend, scribble down your own escapades, or just stick a little mischief wherever it fits — we’ve got you covered. 🧵 Tapestry – Bring Barkley’s world into your own lair 🌲 Wood Print – Rustic charm with rebel energy ✉️ Greeting Card – Send someone a tale they won’t forget 📓 Spiral Notebook – Jot down your own espresso-fueled missions 🐾 Sticker – Tiny Barkley, infinite mischief Available now on shop.unfocussed.com — because legends like Barkley deserve to travel with you.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Stillness Under the Sporelight

The Girl Who Didn't Blink It is said—by unreliable drunks and slightly more reliable dryads—that if you wander too far into the gloom-glow of the Bristleback Woods, you might stumble upon a girl who doesn’t blink. She doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t giggle at your forest selfies or ask where you’re from. She just stands there, under a mushroom so large it could double as the Sistine Chapel of the Mycology Realm, radiating both stillness and a low-key vibe of “touch my spores and die.” Her name, if she has one, is Elspa of the Cap, though no one’s ever heard her say it out loud. Her silver hair falls in gravity-defying sheets like she’s perpetually caught mid-turn in a shampoo commercial. Her eyes are the kind of sharp that slice through pretense, and her cloak? A living fabric of moss and firefly-thread, stitched together by whispering mycelium monks who worship the god of decay (who, fun fact, is also the god of excellent cheese). Now, Elspa isn’t just loitering there for aesthetics. She’s a Protector. Capital P. Assigned to the Eastern Sporeshield—a literal and metaphysical barrier between the mortal world and That Which Seeps. It’s a thankless gig. Her shift is eternal. Her dental plan is nonexistent. And if she had a dime for every time a wandering bard tried to “charm the mushroom maiden,” she could afford a lakeside vacation and a decent exfoliant. But this evening, something is... off. The spores are flickering in odd rhythms, the ground hums with unsettled anticipation, and a group of lost humans—three influencers and one guy named Darren who just wanted to pee—have stepped too far into the border glow. Elspa watches. Still. Silent. Serene. Then she sighs the kind of sigh that could age wine. “Great,” she mutters to no one in particular. “Darren’s about to pee on an ancient Root Node and summon a shadow lichen. Again.” And thus, her vigil—eternal and itchy in places no cloak should itch—enters a new, ridiculous chapter. Lichen, Influencers, and the Ancient Sass If Elspa had a silver for every idiot who tried to commune with the forest by urinating on it, she could build a sky-bridge to the upper canopy, install a clawfoot bath, and retire in a hammock spun from cloud silks. But alas, Elspa of the Cap does not operate in silver. She operates in responsibility, rolled eyes, and ancient fungal contracts etched in rootblood. So when Darren—poor, nasal-voiced, cargo-shorted Darren—unzipped next to a glowing root and muttered, “Hope this isn't poison ivy,” the ground didn’t just hum. It thrummed. Like a cello string plucked by a god with regrets. The Root Node pulsed once, angrily, and released a puff of glimmering black spores into Darren’s face. He blinked. Coughed. Then burped a sound that was unmistakably in iambic pentameter. “Uhh... Darren?” called one of the influencers—Saylor Skye, 28K followers, known for her bioluminescent makeup tutorials and recent controversial opinion that moss is overrated. Darren turned slowly. His eyes glowed with fungal intelligence. His skin had begun to crust over with the papery, rippling texture of creeping shadow lichen. He took a breath, and out came the kind of voice that usually requires two vocal cords and an angry wind deity. “THE SPORE SEES ALL. THE ROOT REMEMBERS. YOU HAVE DISRESPECTED THE CORDYCEPTIC ORDER. WE HUNGER FOR RECKLESS URINATION.” “Okay, so that’s new,” Saylor muttered, already positioning her ring light. “This could be amazing content.” Elspa of the Cap, meanwhile, was already five paces closer, her cloak rustling like gossip between old leaves. She did not run. She never runs. Running is for deer, scammers, and emotionally unavailable men. Instead, she glided, slow and deliberate, until she stood squarely between the possessed Darren and the viral thirst trap crew. She raised a single hand, fingers curled into a sigil known only to Protectors and three heavily intoxicated badgers who once wandered into a secret fungal monastery. The forest quieted. The glow dimmed. Even the lichen paused—briefly confused, as if realizing it had possessed the most aggressively average man in existence. “You,” Elspa said, her voice flat as a moss mat, “have less intelligence than a damp toadstool with commitment issues.” Darren twitched. “THE ROOT—” “No,” Elspa cut in, and the air around her tightened, like the woods themselves were holding their breath. “You don’t get to use Root Speech while wearing Crocs. I will literally banish you to the mulch plane where the beige lichens go to die of boredom.” The Root Lichen hesitated. Possession is a finicky thing. It depends greatly on the drama and dignity of the host. Darren, gods bless him, was leaking anxiety and ham sandwich energy. Not ideal for ancient fungal vengeance. “Let him go,” Elspa ordered, placing her palm gently on Darren’s forehead. A soft pulse of light radiated from her fingers, warm and wet like forest breath. The spores recoiled, hissing like steamed leeches. With a gasp and a burp that smelled alarmingly like button mushrooms, Darren collapsed into the leaf litter, blinking up at Elspa with the awe of a man who’d just seen God, and She had judged his soul and his choice of footwear. Saylor, never one to waste a moment, whispered, “Girl, that was badass. Are you like... a woodland dominatrix or something? You need a handle. What about, like, ‘Mushroom Queen’ or—” “I am a Sporelady of the Eastern Sporeshield, sworn to stillness, guardian of the hidden pact, and dispenser of ancient sass,” Elspa replied coolly. “But yes. Sure. ‘Mushroom Queen’ works.” At this point, the forest had resumed its usual whispering hum of bird-thoughts and moss-logic, but something deeper had stirred. Elspa could feel it. The Root wasn’t just reacting to Darren’s disrespect. Something below—far below—had opened one curious eye. A vast consciousness, old and rot-bound, roused from fungal dreaming. And that... was not great. “Okay, folks,” Elspa said, hands on her hips. “Time to go. Walk exactly where I walk. If you step on a fungus circle or try to pet the singing bark, I will personally feed you to the Sporeshogs.” “What's a Sporeshog?” asked one influencer with rhinestone eyebrows. “A hungry regret with tusks. Now move.” And so, under the watchful hush of the ancient forest, Elspa led them deeper—not out, not yet—but to an old place. A locked place. Because something had awakened beneath the spores, and it remembered her name. The girl who didn’t blink was about to do something she hadn’t done in four centuries: Break a rule. The Pact, the Bloom, and the Girl Who Finally Blinked Beneath the forest, where roots speak in silence and lichen stores secrets in the curve of their growth rings, the door waited. Not a door in the human sense—no hinges, no knob, no angry HOA notices nailed to its frame—but a swelling of bark and memory where all stories end and some begin again. Elspa hadn’t approached it in three hundred and ninety-two years, not since she’d last sealed it with her blood, her oath, and a very sarcastic haiku. Now she stood before it again, the influencers clustered behind her like decorative mushrooms—colorful, vaguely toxic, and very confused. “You sure this is the way out?” asked Saylor, nervously checking her live stream. Only four viewers remained. One of them was her ex. “No,” Elspa said. “This is the way in.” With a flick of her wrist, her cloak unfurled like wings. The mycelium that threaded through it responded, humming in a low, sticky vibration. Elspa knelt and pressed her palm to the door. The forest’s breath hitched. “Hey, Root Dad,” she whispered. The earth groaned in a language older than rot. Something enormous and thoughtful pressed its presence upward, like a whale surfacing through soil. “Elspa.” It wasn’t a voice. It was a knowing. A feeling that settled into your bones like damp regret. “You let a Darren pee on me,” the Root murmured, vaguely wounded. “I was on break,” she lied. “Had a mushroom smoothie. Terrible idea. Got distracted.” “You are unraveling.” And she was. She could feel it. The Protector’s stillness fraying at the edges. The sarcasm was a symptom. The sass, a defense. After centuries of anchoring the Eastern Sporeshield, her spirit had begun to stir in inconvenient directions—toward action, toward change. Dangerous things, both. “I want out,” she said quietly. “I want to blink.” The Root paused for several geological seconds. Then: “You would give up stillness for movement? Spore for spark?” “I would give up stillness to stop feeling like furniture with back pain.” Behind her, Darren groaned and rolled over. One of the influencers had found cell service and was watching conspiracy theories about mushroom-based cults on YouTube. Elspa didn’t turn around. She didn’t need to. She was watching them all, in the way that only something still can truly watch—deep, unblinking, patient. “I’ll train another,” she said. “Someone younger. Maybe a squirrel. Maybe a girl who doesn’t speak in hashtags. Someone who isn’t tired.” The Root was silent. Then, finally, it cracked. A thin seam opened along the bark, revealing a soft, amber light from within—a warm glow like a memory you almost forgot, waiting to be held. “Then you may pass,” the Root said. “But you must leave the Cloak.” That stopped her. The Cloak was not just fabric—it was every vow, every buried pain, every flicker of fungal wisdom stitched into shape. Without it, she would be... only Elspa. No longer Protector. Just a woman. With a really overdue nap ahead of her. She shrugged it off. It fell to the ground with a whisper that shook sap from the trees. Elspa stepped into the amber light. It smelled like petrichor, fresh mushrooms, and the breath of something that had never stopped loving her, not once, in four hundred years. The influencers watched, mouths open, thumbs frozen over “record.” Saylor whispered, “She didn’t even grab her cloak. That’s so raw.” Then the Root Door closed, and she was gone. — They never saw her again. Well, not as she had been. The new Protector appeared the next spring: a young woman with wild hair, a suspiciously intelligent squirrel assistant, and the Cloak reborn in softer threads. She didn’t speak much, but when she did, her sarcasm could fell a grown troll. And somewhere far away, in a small cottage grown from a ring of mushrooms under a sunset that never quite ended, Elspa blinked. She laughed. She learned to burn food again. She made very bad wine and worse friends. And when she smiled, it always looked just a little like the forest was smiling with her. Because sometimes, even protectors deserve to be protected. Even the still must someday dance. And the sporelight, for once, did not fade.     If Elspa’s quiet rebellion, her sacred sarcasm, and the glow of the sporelight linger in your thoughts—why not bring a little of that stillness home? From enchanted canvas prints that breathe life into your walls, to metal prints that shimmer like bioluminescent bark, you can take a piece of the Eastern Sporeshield with you. Curl up with a plush throw pillow inspired by her legendary cloak, or carry forest magic wherever you wander with a charming tote bag straight from Elspa’s dream cottage. Let her story settle into your space—and maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel the forest watching back.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Split-Pawed Snorticorn

The Cursed Cupcake Incident In the heart of the Bewildering Wood — a place where reality tended to forget its pants — there lived a kitten named Fizzle. But not just any kitten. Fizzle was a chimera: half tabby, half cream puff, with a unicorn horn that glowed when he sneezed and tiny bat wings that flapped angrily when someone stole his snacks. Which, to be fair, was often. Because Fizzle had a very punchable face — adorable, yes, but the kind that just screamed “I licked your donut.” Fizzle had no idea how he came to be the universe’s most bizarre mashup of cuteness and chaos. Some say he was cursed by a bored forest witch who got ghosted by a dating app algorithm. Others claim he was the result of a late-night tequila-fueled spell gone wrong involving two cats, one gremlin, and a drunken unicorn. All Fizzle knew was this: his life was a relentless carousel of unwanted attention, absurd quests, and inexplicable cupcake-related incidents. Case in point: on the morning our tale begins, Fizzle awoke to find a cursed red velvet cupcake sitting neatly on a mossy log outside his mossier tree stump. It pulsed ominously. It sparkled obscenely. It smelled like cinnamon, regret, and demonic frosting. “Oh no,” Fizzle muttered, his voice that of a surprisingly deep British butler trapped in a kitten’s body. “Not again.” Last time he ignored a cursed pastry, his wings turned into rubber chickens and his meow summoned tax auditors. But if he ate it? Well, he'd probably be turned into a moon or something equally inconvenient. The cupcake gave a seductive little shimmy. Fizzle gave it the finger. (Figuratively. He didn’t technically have fingers. But the glare did the job.) Just then, a scroll burst into flame mid-air and dropped onto his head. It read: “Oh Glorious Split-Pawed Snorticorn! You have been chosen to embark upon a sacred journey. Save the village of Gloomsnort from its existential dread. You will be compensated in baked goods.” “Nope,” Fizzle said, tossing the scroll into a puddle. It promptly turned into a swarm of motivational bees that buzzed things like “You’ve got this!” and “Believe in your tail!” and “Live. Laugh. Loot.” Fizzle sighed. He flexed his stubby wings, snorted a spark from his horn, and turned dramatically toward the east — which, in this part of the forest, was whatever direction your sarcasm pointed. “Fine,” he muttered, rolling his eyes so hard they almost dislocated. “Let’s go save a bunch of sad peasants from whatever emo nonsense they’ve gotten themselves into this week.” Thus began the legend of the most reluctant, snarky, and snack-obsessed hero the realm had never asked for — but was probably going to get anyway. Gloomsnort’s Emotional Support Goblins By the time Fizzle reached the outskirts of Gloomsnort — a town famous for its moaning fog, emotionally repressed turnips, and aggressively mediocre poetry scene — he already regretted everything. His fur had frizzed from a sudden cloud of passive-aggressive lightning. His horn had been used by a flock of caffeine-addicted sprites as a stirring stick. And worst of all, he’d run out of his emergency cheese crackers. The town gate — which was really more of a fence that had given up on itself — creaked as Fizzle nudged it open. A sentry goblin slumped in a folding chair, wearing a vest labeled “Security-ish” and eating a pickle with deep, philosophical sadness. “Name?” the goblin asked without enthusiasm. “Fizzle,” the kitten replied, brushing soot off his wings. “Chimera. Snorticorn. Destroyer of mild inconveniences. Possibly your last hope, depending on the budget.” The goblin blinked slowly. “That sounds made up.” “So does your mustache,” Fizzle deadpanned. “Let me in.” He was waved through without another word, mostly because nobody in Gloomsnort had the energy to argue with a creature whose horn was currently sparking with repressed rage and low blood sugar. The town square looked like a failed pop-up therapy festival. Banners hung limply with slogans like “Feelings Are Fine (Sometimes)” and “Hug Yourself Before You Mug Yourself.” A trio of goblin buskers was attempting an interpretive dance about the dangers of unprocessed grief while juggling meat pies. No one was watching. Except for a one-eyed newt with a monocle. The newt was weeping. “This place needs a mood swing and a disco ball,” Fizzle muttered. From the shadows emerged a cloaked figure with the vibe of someone who definitely journaled with scented ink. She introduced herself as Sage Crumpet, High Priestess of the Cult of Complex Emotions and Chief Warden of the Town’s Existential Crisis Inventory. “We’re so glad you came,” she said, eyes full of haunted sparkle. “Our entire village has lost its will to brunch. The espresso machines only weep now.” “Tragic,” Fizzle said flatly. “And what, precisely, am I expected to do about it?” She handed him a soggy parchment. It read: “Find the source of the malaise. Neutralize it. Optional: hug it out.” Fizzle sighed and popped his neck. “Let’s start with the usual suspects. Cursed artifacts? Undead therapists? Rogue poets with God complexes?” “We suspect… it’s the fountain,” Crumpet whispered. “The town’s emotional support fountain?” Fizzle asked. “Yes. It’s… begun to give advice.” Now, advising fountains weren’t new in this realm. The Elven city of Faelaqua had one that whispered self-care tips and passive-aggressive reminders to moisturize. But Gloomsnort’s fountain was reportedly speaking in ALL CAPS and demanding tribute in the form of scented candles and cryptic performance art. When Fizzle approached the fountain — which looked suspiciously like a repurposed birdbath covered in motivational moss — it began vibrating ominously. “I AM THE FONT OF INNER TURMOIL,” it bellowed. “BRING ME THE UNRESOLVED DREAMS OF YOUR CHILDHOOD OR BE FOREVER INFLUENCED BY DISCOUNT WELLNESS PODCASTS.” “Oh great,” Fizzle muttered, “a sentient Tumblr post with delusions of grandeur.” The fountain burbled menacingly. “SNORTICORN. I KNOW YOUR SHAME. YOU ONCE TRIED TO CAST A SPELL BY YELLING ‘FIREBALL’ AT A CANDLE.” “That’s called experimenting,” Fizzle snapped. “And it mostly worked. The curtain never fully recovered, but—” “SILENCE! YOU MUST FACE THE FORBIDDEN SPIRIT OF YOUR OWN REPRESSED WHIMSY. OR I WILL FLOOD THIS VILLAGE WITH PUMPKIN SPICE TEARS.” Before Fizzle could argue, the air cracked like a therapy bill, and from the fountain rose a swirling mist that took the shape of… a lizard. A very tall, muscular, improbably oiled lizard with sparkly eyes, a leather vest, and the voice of a late-night jazz DJ. “Well, hello there,” the lizard purred. “You must be my inner trauma.” “I sincerely hope not,” Fizzle said, backing up a pawstep. “I’m Lurvio,” the lizard said, stretching in slow motion. “I’m your unresolved ambition to be taken seriously while also being adorable and mildly unhinged.” “You’re a lot,” Fizzle said. “Like, too much lizard and not enough metaphor.” “Let’s tango,” Lurvio said, summoning a glowing banjo and an audience of giggling will-o’-the-wisps. And so, naturally, they danced. Because that’s how these things go. Fizzle found himself locked in an increasingly absurd ritual known as the “Twirling of Suppressed Self-Realization,” which involved tap-dancing around literal baggage while the townsfolk clapped off-beat and Crumpet wept into a tissue shaped like her father’s disapproval. As the final banjo chord faded into existential moaning, Lurvio bowed and dissolved into sparkles, yelling, “LIVE YOUR TRUTH, YOU FLUFFY ICON!” The fountain stopped vibrating. The town sighed in relief. Somewhere, a turnip wrote a sonnet and smiled. “Did… did I just fix your town by emotionally breakdancing with my lizard shadow self?” Fizzle asked, panting. “Yes,” Crumpet sniffled. “You have healed our emotional fountain. We are, once again, brunch-capable.” Fizzle collapsed into a pile of dramatic sighs and muttered, “I better get a freaking cupcake for this.” The Rise and Mildly Inconvenient Fall of the Snorticorn The morning after the Lizard of Suppressed Whimsy exploded into sparkles, Gloomsnort awoke to something even more unsettling than emotional healing: hope. Villagers danced half-heartedly near the now-chill fountain, sipping herbal tea and debating whether their therapy goats could now be replaced with gratitude journals. Street vendors sold knockoff plushies labeled “Fizzle Plushicorns,” complete with detachable wings and tiny embroidered frowns. A bard had already written a ballad titled “The Horny Half-Cat Who Saved Our Souls.” Fizzle hated everything. He’d tried sneaking out before breakfast, but the moment he stepped out of his tavern room (decorated entirely in his likeness, which was as traumatic as it was poorly lit), he was mobbed by townsfolk demanding inspirational quotes, hair clippings, and in one case, advice on long-distance dating a banshee. “I’m not a guru, I’m a goblin piñata with better marketing,” he growled, snapping at someone trying to polish his horn. “The Snorticorn speaks in riddles!” someone gasped. “Write that down!” “It wasn’t a riddle, Brenda. It was sarcasm.” Just as he reached peak fluff-fueled meltdown, Sage Crumpet appeared with an official-looking scroll and a look of spiritual constipation. “There’s… been a development,” she said ominously. “The Council of Unwarranted Revelations has decreed that you are to be enshrined in the Eternal Temple of Tricky Destiny.” “That sounds made up.” “Oh it is. But it’s also very real. That’s how cults work.” Fizzle was herded (gently, and with far too many flower garlands) to the ceremonial Glimmer Dome — a converted hay barn full of twinkle lights, confetti cannons, and a suspicious number of motivational cats painted on the walls. A robed council stood at the center. One of them was a hedgehog. Nobody explained that. “We have seen the glitter in the goat’s entrails,” intoned the lead seer, who may or may not have been high on nutmeg. “You are the Snorticorn of Legend. You must now ascend to your final form.” “What in the caramel-dipped hells does that mean?” Fizzle snapped. “It means,” said Crumpet gently, “that you’re about to be sacrificed to fulfill the Prophecy of Snackrifice.” “Excuse me??” “You see,” she continued, “ancient texts foretold that a fluffy, grumpy creature with great sass and uneven fur would bring emotional balance — but only by being dunked in the Sacred Fondue of Final Realization.” Fizzle’s wings snapped to full mast. “YOU WANT TO MELT ME IN CHEESE?” “Only a little,” said Crumpet. “Symbolically. Maybe. We’re not really sure what counts as a ‘dunk.’ The texts are vague and partially written in glitter glue.” It was then, as he was eyeing the hot cauldron bubbling ominously with gouda, that Fizzle remembered who he was: a sarcastic, deeply tired chimera kitten who had survived cursed pastries, emotional fountains, and sexy metaphor lizards. And by all the snacks in the sacred pantry — he wasn’t about to become brunch. “NOPE,” he yelled, puffing up like a stress puffball and launching himself into the air with a surprisingly majestic flap of his bat wings. “I AM RETIRING FROM PROPHECIES. I’M GOING BACK TO MY TREE STUMP, AND I’M TAKING THE CEREMONIAL CROISSANTS WITH ME!” The crowd gasped. The seers tripped over their robes. The fondue splashed. And somewhere in the confusion, Fizzle set off a confetti cannon with his horn and disappeared in a puff of glitter and sass. He wasn’t seen again for several weeks — not until a traveling raccoon bard spotted him lounging in a hammock woven from old scrolls, sipping coconut milk out of a skull cup, and muttering into a notebook labeled “New Prophecy Ideas: Less Fondue.” Gloomsnort slowly recovered from its hero-loss trauma. The plushie market crashed. The emotional support fountain eventually retired and opened a podcast. But now and then, when the fog rolls just right and someone lights a cinnamon candle of questionable origin, you might hear a faint voice on the wind whisper: “Live. Laugh. Snort.” And somewhere, Fizzle rolls his eyes and flips the sky the bird.     Take the Snorticorn Home (Without the Fondue Risk) If you laughed, sighed, or questioned reality while following Fizzle’s gloriously unhinged journey, you can now summon a piece of that chaotic charm into your own realm. Canvas prints and framed prints are available to bring mystical snark to your walls, while our delightfully impractical hero also graces greeting cards for those brave enough to send feelings in the mail. Want to scribble sarcastic wisdom like Fizzle himself? Grab a spiral notebook. Or declare your allegiance to weirdly heroic fluffballs with a sticker worthy of laptops, water bottles, or forbidden grimoire covers. Bring the magic home — because every space deserves a little snort-powered sass.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Wizard of the Four Realms

Embers of the Pact In the lands before clocks, before kings, before carpets that flew or taxes that didn't, there lived a wizard known only as Calvax. Not a wizard — the wizard. Calvax the Boundless. Calvax the Irredeemable. Calvax, He Who Made the Elements Cry “Uncle.” Titles were easy to collect when you lived long enough to slap thunder across the face and drain a volcano like a fine scotch. He wasn’t born so much as assembled — carved by the roots of elder trees, tempered by the hiss of midwinter geysers, and given breath by a gust stolen from the lungs of a dying hurricane. No mother, no father, just the Four: Earth, Water, Fire, Air. They each took a piece of themselves and jammed them into the wrinkled hide of an old man-shaped golem, hoping he’d be wise, maybe helpful. Instead, they got a cranky old bastard with a god complex and a flair for sarcasm. He spent centuries pretending to protect the Realms. Planting forests here, flooding tyrants there, occasionally setting noblemen ablaze "by accident" when they strutted too close. But that was before the humans — oh, the humans — turned him into a bedtime story. They called him a myth, a fable, a “cautionary tale.” Imagine being cosmically handcrafted by nature itself only to be reduced to the narrative equivalent of a PSA about staying in school. That might’ve been the end of it. Calvax, still grumpy but dormant. Until one day, he stirred. Not because of duty. Not because the elements called him. No, he woke up because some arrogant little prince with too much cologne and not enough brain matter decided to dynamite a sacred grove… for a golf course. It wasn’t even a good one. Nine holes. Artificial turf. A margarita drone. Calvax stood at the edge of the smoldering grove, face cracked with fresh rage. Lava veins pulsed under one cheek, rain hissed down his beard, and moss reanimated across his temple like a slow curse. He hadn't looked this alive in 200 years. “Guess who's back, back again?” he muttered, voice gravel and thunder. “Tell your friends.” The elements whispered in his bones: **Vengeance. Fire. Reclamation. Snark.** He smiled, the kind of smile that made birds drop dead mid-air and made gods feel a little nervous. Because when Calvax gets mad, continents shift. And when he gets even? Oh honey, they rename maps. The Vile Vineyard of Varron Dax There are few things in life more dangerous than an immortal wizard with time on his hands. Especially one with a grudge. Calvax didn’t just want to punish the idiot prince who torched the sacred grove — he wanted to annihilate his legacy, humiliate his bloodline, and make his ancestors spin in their graves fast enough to generate clean energy. The target of his elemental vendetta was Prince Varron Dax, heir to the wine-bloated, scandal-riddled House Daxleford. A walking ego with a six-pack sculpted by court mages, teeth too perfect to be real, and a jawline that had ruined more peace treaties than plague. His offenses were many — wars for profit, deforestation for “aesthetic hunting grounds,” and the worst offense of all: he once tried to rebrand the moon. Called it “The Dax Pearl” and had it trademarked. He was an icon of mediocrity propped up by wealth, vanity, and an inner circle that doubled as a harem, a weapons cartel, and a PR agency. He lived in a palace made of white quartz and glass imported from shattered temples. A man who believed elemental shrines were just old rocks in need of explosives and a Pinterest board. So Calvax didn’t send a lightning bolt or erupt a volcano under his villa. That would be too fast. Too clean. No, he brewed something petty. Vile. Deliciously drawn-out. The kind of revenge that requires charts, enchanted ink, and a sarcasm-fueled ritual on a Tuesday. It began with the Vineyard Curse. Prince Varron’s favorite pastime was his exclusive “Apocalypse Rosé,” a wine harvested only once every lunar eclipse, made from grapes grown in the ash of sacred forest groves — including the one he’d destroyed. His private label had a six-year waiting list and came with a certificate of divine smugness. So Calvax hexed the soil under it. Not to kill the vines. No — to make them sentient. And moody. The vines woke screaming at sunrise. They wrapped around workers’ ankles, whipped at butlers, and demanded rights. Some started quoting existential philosophers. Others whispered gossip they shouldn’t know. One was overheard telling a noblewoman that her husband was cheating and had a wart “shaped like betrayal.” Within days, the vineyard was overrun with emotionally unstable flora, wailing about abandonment and wine exploitation. A rare breed of grape attempted to unionize. Bottles began to ferment into vinegar overnight. The most expensive casks turned to gelatinous goo with notes of regret and elderflower. Naturally, Prince Varron called in mages. Twelve of them. Expensive ones with silk robes and hollow morals. Calvax laughed. Then he sent them dreams — dreams of drowning in barrels of rosé, being strangled by grapevines whispering their childhood insecurities. By week’s end, three renounced magic. Two joined a monastery. One tried to marry a potted plant. But Calvax wasn’t finished. Oh, no. The vineyard was just Act One in his slow-motion destruction of House Daxleford. Next came The Wailing Well. Hidden under the palace’s west wing, it once whispered ancient truths to those who dared lean in. Varron, of course, had it converted into a cocktail well. Magic-infused rum. Sigh. So Calvax tweaked it. Now, anyone who drank from it would speak only in their darkest regrets for twenty-four hours. Court meetings turned into confessions. Daxleford guards admitted to stealing pants off dead enemies. Nobles sobbed over failed affairs, bribes, and unresolved issues with their childhood ponies. At a banquet, Varron himself took a shot of “Haunted Hibiscus” and, to the horror of every ambassador present, blurted out that he had forged his entire military record and once cried when he broke a nail during a duel he didn’t show up to. Foreign dignitaries left in disgust. Treaties were annulled. A wedding between Varron’s cousin and the Frost King’s son was called off due to "unrelenting douchebaggery." Then came the dreams. Not just for the prince. For everyone. At night, the skies over Daxleford turned cloudy with faces — elemental, glowing, sneering. Each peasant and noble alike saw visions of Calvax’s return: the bearded wrath of Earth, Water, Fire, and Air, laughing with wild-eyed delight. People began fleeing the kingdom in droves. Carts were loaded, palaces abandoned. Even the rats packed up and left letters of resignation. Still, Prince Varron remained. Or rather, hid. In his panic chamber. Surrounded by velvet and perfumed walls. Waiting. Hoping this was all a bad trip brought on by too much spiced mead and not enough moral fiber. But Calvax was just getting started. Revenge wasn't a moment. It was an arc. And the next chapter was not just about humiliation. It was about ruin. The Crown of Cinders The final blow was not a scream or a fireball. It wasn’t even a flood or a landslide — though Calvax toyed with all those options during a particularly satisfying bath in molten basalt. No, the fall of Prince Varron Dax came on the wings of a whisper. A name. Spoken softly. Carried on the wind like gossip with fangs. “He knows.” No one knew who said it first. Perhaps a maid. Perhaps a goat. Perhaps the breeze itself, now loyal to the ancient wizard who once seduced a thunderstorm into loyalty and made a hurricane blush. But once those words spread, the court unravelled like a badly tied corset at an orgy. He knows. He knows what you did. Where you hid it. Who you paid. Who you slept with. Who you had executed on a dare. He knows. And he’s coming. Not for justice. Not for peace. But for entertainment. Calvax was no longer just a wizard. He was inevitability with a beard. The prince’s inner circle fell first — not by sword or spell, but by fear-induced dumbassery. The Minister of Coin set the treasury on fire to “hide the evidence.” The Royal General shaved her head, put on a robe, and fled to live with the badgers. The High Priest tried to exorcise himself. Twice. One noble tried to bribe Calvax with enchanted silk sheets. Calvax turned him into a perfectly folded napkin that weeps during dinner. Even the prince’s famed pleasure dome — a rotating carousel of glass and moonlight — simply shattered under the weight of anxiety and unpaid elemental debts. Apparently the air spirits don’t take late fees lightly. And where was Varron Dax, during this crumbling, flaming, totally-earned disaster? Cowering. Beneath the palace. In the Chamber of Forgotten Bones. Wrapped in mink and mead-stained shame. He hadn’t shaved in weeks. His jawline, once insured by seven different kingdoms, was now hidden behind the tragic fuzz of existential dread. He whispered to himself in the dark: “He’s just a myth. A scary story. A bedtime tale for peasants and druids.” Then the stones began to weep. Real tears. Granite sobbing, ancient marble moaning. And through the cracks in the chamber ceiling, a vine pushed through — not green, but blackened with fury and wet with ancient memory. Calvax entered the chamber without opening a door. The air folded around him like it owed him money. His robes moved as if stitched by weather itself — lightning hemming the cuffs, rainwater rolling off the folds, embers dancing across the seams. His eyes gleamed — one burning coal, the other a drop of ocean so cold it ached to look at. Varron stood. Or tried. His knees, having been raised on velvet and cowardice, gave out. “You… you can’t,” Varron stammered, pointing a ring-clad finger. “You’re not real. I outlawed you. I made a decree. You’re obsolete!” Calvax snorted. “You also decreed that water could be flammable and that pigs could vote. How’d that work out?” “You’re a relic,” Varron spat, grasping for any kind of leverage. “No one believes in you anymore.” Calvax stepped forward. The air chilled. Flames in the prince’s panic-lanterns died mid-flicker. Even the stone bones embedded in the walls turned to look. “I don’t require belief,” Calvax said. “I require consequences.” With one wave of his hand, the ground trembled, then bloomed — not with roses, but with the ghosts of trees. The sacred grove returned, if only in spirit, growing through the cracks, roots of memory twisting around marble columns, wrapping the prince in vines of remorse and poetic justice. “You destroyed what you didn’t understand,” Calvax whispered. “You mocked what you couldn’t master. And now… you face the only thing left: me.” Varron opened his mouth to scream — but no sound came. His voice, Calvax decided, would be put to better use elsewhere. When the people of Daxleford returned months later, the palace was gone. In its place stood a massive tree — towering, ancient, and humming with elemental power. From one gnarled branch, a face-shaped knot wept mead. And in the wind, sometimes, you could hear a voice mutter: “I should’ve just planted a stupid orchard.” Calvax? He vanished. Or perhaps he simply moved on. Legends said he wandered north, where the ice moans and the auroras whisper dirty jokes. Others say he became the mountain itself. But one thing is certain: if you hear the trees laugh, if the wind chuckles, if your wine tastes a little judgmental — he’s watching. And if you’re very, very lucky… he’s only amused.     Bring the Magic Home Feeling a strange urge to hex your living room? Want to carry a little elemental vengeance to the farmer’s market? Or maybe you just want to wrap yourself in the smoldering wrath of an ancient wizard while binge-watching morally questionable TV? You're in luck. The legendary artwork behind Wizard of the Four Realms is available in enchanted object form — no arcane training required. Whether you're a lover of fantasy art, a chaos gremlin with good taste, or someone just tired of blank walls and boring blankets, there’s something here for you: 🔥 Metal Print – Give your space a bold, elemental glow with a high-gloss finish that practically radiates power. 🌊 Acrylic Print – Crystal-clear depth and mesmerizing vibrance — as if Calvax himself enchanted your walls. 🌿 Tote Bag – Carry the power of all four realms with you, whether you’re grocery shopping or cursing exes from afar. 🌬️ Fleece Blanket – Cozy up with elemental fury. Warning: may provoke dreams of vengeance and excellent snark. Honor the grove. Hug the magic. Decorate with wrath. Shop the full collection now and turn your realm into something truly unforgettable.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Madame Mugwort’s Morning Ritual

The Brew Before the Boom Madame Mugwort did not tolerate interruptions before her first cup. Not from the crows, not from the spirits in the attic, and especially not from the overly chipper nymph next door who thought singing to her begonias at sunrise was an acceptable life choice. “If I wanted a warbling root sprite to assault my morning, I'd have adopted a satyr,” Mugwort muttered, yanking the curtains shut with a gnarled hand that glowed faintly with anti-joy warding charms. The kettle, of course, was already screeching — not in the mundane whistling sense, but in the proper banshee-on-fire kind of way. It was enchanted to alert the undead neighbors to mind their own grave plots. Mugwort shuffled toward it, her patchwork slippers whispering secrets to the floor as she passed. With the steam of something possibly caffeinated and vaguely alive curling from the spout, she poured the boiling brew into a carved mug etched with wards, glyphs, and the occasional passive-aggressive sigil. “For Clarity and Calm,” read the bottom — a lie so bold it shimmered slightly in the morning sun. She took a sip. Then another. The room exhaled. Somewhere, a distant thunderclap retreated sheepishly. Her left eyebrow — once raised with perpetual suspicion — slowly lowered to its resting state of "I’m still watching you, but I’ll allow it." As the potion settled into her bones, Mugwort peered out over her wooden sill, where the fog rolled in like a hangover made of mist. The birds didn’t chirp. They knew better. One particularly bold bluejay gave a brief squawk, then exploded into glitter — she’d warned them about the perimeter rune. Natural selection was tough but effective in the Wyrdwood. She pulled her shawl tighter, the tartan fabric absorbing the morning's strange energies like a cozy sponge of ancestral sass. Each thread was stitched with a lesson. “Don’t trust a druid who can’t cook,” read one. “Wolves lie. Owls eavesdrop. Fae flirt to steal your soul. And never date a man who insists on being called ‘Sorcerer Supreme’ — he probably still lives with his mother.” Today, she thought, would be the day. The omen-teabags had all dissolved into phallic shapes. The mirror had winked at her twice. And the squirrel council outside had left three acorns stacked in the unmistakable shape of a middle finger. Yes. Today was the day she’d been avoiding for 147 years, 2 months, and an inconvenient Tuesday: she would face her past. Or at least open the damn letter still sealed in that cursed green envelope on the mantel. The one that hummed quietly. The one that occasionally belched sparks. But first, another sip. Because even when destiny is scratching at your front door wearing a trench coat and nothing else, you do not — do not — deal with it until the mug is empty. She took a deep breath, adjusted her headscarf with a flourish that made a moth faint in admiration, and muttered: “Alright, destiny. You cheeky bastard. Let’s dance. Just… gimme five more minutes.” The Envelope of Unresolved Shenanigans Five minutes turned into twenty-two. Not that time flowed normally in Mugwort’s cottage. The grandfather clock was sentient, petty, and entirely unreliable — having fallen in love with a coatrack in 1893, it refused to chime until she reunited them. Mugwort, of course, refused on principle. The coatrack had splinters and bad taste in hats. She sat in her creaky rocking chair, the mug now empty save for a sentient tea leaf clinging to the rim like a drunk sailor. The glow in her eyes dimmed slightly as she stared at the envelope — forest green, wax-sealed with a thorny insignia, and pulsing like a guilty heartbeat. She sighed with all the weight of a woman who’s lived through five pandemics, three invasions, and an unfortunate summer fling with a shapeshifter who never quite learned boundaries. “If this damn letter contains another prophecy about the end of the world, I swear I’ll burn down the oracle’s hot tub,” she muttered, lifting the envelope with the caution usually reserved for dragons, cursed cheese, or fan mail. Her fingers trembled slightly. Not from fear — from irritation. “Let it be known,” she said aloud to the furniture, “that if this turns out to be from my ex, I will personally hex every pair of his underwear into sentient, clingy vines.” The wax melted with a hiss as she tapped it with her thumbnail. The letter unfolded itself — of course it did — revealing ink that shimmered between gold and blood red, depending on how guilty you felt reading it. Mugwort’s eyes narrowed as the words appeared in dramatic, over-performed cursive: “Dearest Elmira Mugwort, the Time Has Come.” “Oh, piss off,” she grunted. “It’s always come. When was the last time someone wrote me saying ‘Never mind, the Time is taking a nap’?” The letter continued, oblivious to her contempt: “A great unraveling approaches. You must travel to the Forgotten Marsh, seek the Tower of Neveragain, and retrieve the Cup of Eternal…” She stopped reading. Her eye twitched. “Nope.” She flung the parchment across the room. It burst into harmless blue flames, dissolved into ash, and reassembled itself midair back in her lap like a desperate ex with access to your cloud backups. “You must go,” it insisted in a new font — sassier this time, Comic Sans with divine authority. She took a deep, world-weary breath. “I knew this day would come. I just hoped it would arrive after I’d reincarnated as a pampered house cat with excellent posture.” Dragging herself from the chair with exaggerated drama, she retrieved her travel sack — a patchwork leather thing that smelled of licorice, old books, and poor decisions. She opened her herb drawer, which promptly scolded her. “You haven’t replenished your migraine bark in a month,” it said in her mother’s voice. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you using parsley instead of wyrmroot in the stew last Thursday.” “Wyrmroot gives me gas,” Mugwort snapped. She shoved in a vial of dream-dust, three goblin crackers, and a sarcastic spoon that whispered unsolicited advice. Her staff — gnarled, beautiful, and slightly passive-aggressive — leaned against the wall humming show tunes. She grabbed it. It sighed. “Don’t start,” she warned. “We’re doing this because some mystical postal system insists on dragging me into destiny one more damn time.” As she prepared to leave, the fireplace rumbled. A face appeared in the flames — haughty cheekbones, smoky eyes, and the unmistakable expression of someone who’d attended too many secret council meetings. “Elmira,” it said. “Flamefax, if you’re about to tell me I’m ‘the only one who can stop this,’ I will slap your manifestation with a frozen fish.” He blinked. “Well, technically it’s you and a band of—” “NOPE. We are not assembling a ragtag crew of misfits again. The last one ended with a stolen goat, a possessed ukulele, and a restraining order from the Merfolk Guild.” “They lifted that, didn’t they?” “Only on alternating Tuesdays during waning moons.” The fireface sighed. “Look, Mugwort, you don’t have to do this alone. The prophecy says—” “The prophecy can kiss my tartan arse.” She blew out the flame with a single puff. It gave a mournful little wheeze and vanished. Mugwort stood there, arms crossed, lips pursed, considering the absurdity of yet another magical quest at her age. “You’d think I’d earned my magical menopause and could finally be left alone to ferment gin and judge people’s chakras,” she grumbled. But a flicker of something stirred inside her — not obligation, not even curiosity. Just the faintest itch of unfinished business. The kind that gets under your nails and whispers, you’re not done yet, old girl. She stared at the morning sun now breaking through the trees — not golden, but coppery like a coin flipped too many times. A decision made. A door opening. Or at least creaking on its hinges, demanding WD-40 and a little courage. “Fine,” she said aloud, cinching her robe, tightening her headscarf, and adjusting a satchel now wriggling with half-sentient luggage. “But I swear, if I see one more Chosen One with a dramatic haircut and no impulse control, I will turn them into a newt with IBS.” With that, Madame Mugwort stepped out of her crooked door, onto the winding path of destiny, with a snarky smirk, a glowing staff, and a mug full of now-cold tea in hand. Because if she was going to face fate, she’d do it the same way she did everything: On her own terms — and fashionably late. The Curse, the Cup, and the Cataclysmic Conclusion The road to the Forgotten Marsh was less a road and more a disrespectful suggestion carved by lightning, spite, and budget cuts. Mugwort’s boots squelched with every step, each one producing a squish that sounded vaguely like moaning frogs reconsidering their life choices. “This,” she muttered, swatting at a mosquito the size of a grapefruit, “is why I don’t take prophecies seriously. If the gods wanted me in a swamp, they could’ve sent wine and a raft.” Her staff, always eager to antagonize, lit up with a dramatic flash to illuminate a twisted sign nailed to a skeletal tree. “WARNING: Here There Be Mild Inconvenience.” Beneath that, in smaller text: Also Death. But Mugwort wasn’t fazed. She’d faced worse in her prime. She’d unseated the King of Spiders with a ladle, divorced a god for bad foot hygiene, and once banished a plague demon by insulting its eyebrows until it gave up on existence. Still, the Tower of Neveragain loomed ahead, rising like an unsolicited group text — tall, ominous, and impossible to ignore. Its stones wept moss and curses. Lightning forked around its top like celestial jazz hands. And perched at the entrance, guarding it with the enthusiasm of a cat watching a dripping tap, was a sphinx with half a crossword puzzle and an attitude problem. “Answer my riddle and—” it began. “Nope,” Mugwort interrupted, flipping a coin at it. “That’s not how—” “You’re lonely. You're underpaid. You're tired of your own riddles. Take the coin, buy yourself a pastry, and let me pass.” The sphinx blinked. Sniffed the coin. Licked it. Shrugged. “Screw it. Go ahead.” Inside, the tower spiraled upward in that ancient way designed by architects who hate knees. Mugwort climbed, wheezing curses at every other stair. The walls whispered forgotten secrets, mostly in passive-aggressive haikus. One read: Power lies aboveBut so does a rotting smellSeriously — yuck At the top, upon a pedestal pulsing with dramatic, overcompensating light, rested the Cup of Eternal ___________. That’s right. The name was missing. The blank shimmered, waiting for someone to define it — a cup shaped by intent, by need, by the drinker’s own desire. And Mugwort knew that was trouble. “This,” she said, eyeing it, “is exactly how Brenda ended up summoning her ex’s lower half attached to her new fiancé.” The room vibrated as a figure stepped out from the shadows. Tall, cloaked, and with a grin that could curdle goat milk: *Thistlebone the Unrelenting*, her former classmate and lifelong magical pain-in-the-arse. “Elmira,” he said smoothly, “you’re late.” “You’re still wearing eyeliner like it’s 1479,” she shot back. He sneered. “I’ve come for the cup.” “Oh, good. Then we can fight like in the old days. You monologue, I sass, something explodes. Shall we begin?” They circled. Staffs crackled. Potions boiled. Insults flew with deadly accuracy. He summoned fire. She summoned sarcasm. He cast illusions. She dispelled them with a look that said, “Boy, I raised better spells in my armpit.” Then he made a fatal mistake — he tried to call her “dear.” The air thickened. The mug, still clipped to her belt, hissed like a kettle before war. She raised it high, whispered an old word — one only spoken during funerals or tax season — and flung its contents straight at his face. He screamed. “WHAT WAS THAT?” “My third cup of Monday morning tea. Brewed in vengeance. Infused with truths. Boiled in regret.” He began shrinking. Hair falling out. Robes deflating. Until all that was left was a grumpy little newt with eyeliner. She scooped him up, dropped him in a glass jar, and slapped on a sticker that read: *“Do Not Feed the Narcissist.”* Now alone, she approached the cup again. It pulsed. The blank shimmered once more: “Cup of Eternal __________?” She stared. Thought. Sighed. Then chuckled. “Oh hell, why not.” She spoke a single word: “Peace.” The cup glowed. Warm. Gentle. The kind of glow that reminded her of soft blankets, fresh bread, and an afternoon where nothing and no one needed her to save the world or babysit destiny. She picked it up. No thunder. No burst of energy. Just a warmth that slid through her bones like a memory of laughter from someone long gone. Descending the tower was easier. Funny how clarity weighed less than dread. The swamp, too, seemed to part for her return — or perhaps it just feared another mug-splashing incident. The sphinx was gone, a trail of frosting leading into the trees. Back home, the fireplace was warm, the chair forgiving, and the tea freshly enchanted. She placed the cup on her mantel, beside a photo of her younger self — smirking, wild-eyed, and holding a goblin in a headlock. She raised her mug in salute. “Still got it, old girl.” The window creaked open. A breeze fluttered through. Somewhere, a raven dropped a scroll labeled “URGENT: Next Prophecy!” She caught it. Used it to light a candle. Sipped her tea. And smiled — because she finally understood: peace wasn't something you waited for. It was something you claimed. Even if you had to hex a bastard or two along the way.     Bring a Bit of Mugwort’s Magic Into Your Realm If you’ve fallen under the spell of Madame Mugwort and her gloriously grumpy rituals, you can now bring a piece of her enchanted world into your own. Whether you’re curling up under a fleece blanket steeped in witchy wisdom, propping your back with a throw pillow charmed with snark and plaid, or sipping tea while gazing at a canvas print or metal print that radiates mystical sass — you’ll find something to suit your vibe. You can even send a bit of her sarcasm to a friend with a greeting card worthy of the weird and wonderful. Each item is crafted to capture the depth, humor, and hearth-warmed charm of this legendary morning moment — perfect for witches, wise women, and chaotic good souls everywhere.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Last Call at Gnome O’Clock

The Pint-Sized Provocateur There are taverns, and then there’s The Pickled Toadstool, a place so off-the-grid not even Google Maps could find it. Buried beneath a crooked willow stump at the far edge of Hooten Hollow, this snug little den of wooden stools, sticky floors, and questionable liqueurs was a well-kept secret among woodland folk. It had only two rules: no goblins on Thursdays, and if Old Finn the gnome is drinking tequila—just let him. Old Finn wasn’t just a regular. He was the reason the barkeep kept lime wedges in stock and the wallpaper perpetually smelled of salt and bad decisions. Clad in a lopsided red cap and a waistcoat that hadn't seen a button in decades, Finn was a legend, a cautionary tale, and a frequent health violation all rolled into one. He wasn't technically old—gnomes lived forever if they stayed away from lawnmowers—but he sure drank like he had nothing left to prove. On the night in question, Finn stumbled into The Pickled Toadstool with a swagger only the irreparably inebriated could pull off. He kicked open the acorn-hinged door, paused dramatically under the threshold like some kind of pointy-shoed gunslinger, and belched a wordless threat into the room. A hush fell. Even the pixies stopped mid-flutter. "I want," he said, pointing a stubby, gnarled finger at nobody in particular, "your finest bottle of whatever makes me forget the mating call of the red-breasted swamp goose." Jilly the bar-maiden, a flirty mushroom sprite with an eyebrow ring and zero patience, rolled her eyes and reached beneath the bar. Out came a bottle of Murkwood Gold—gnome-grade tequila, aged three months in a chipmunk skull and rumored to be illegal in three realms. She didn’t even bother pouring. She just handed it over like it was a loaded weapon. Finn grinned, popped the cork with his teeth, and took a swig so violent it made the tavern’s only decorative fern faint. He thumped his shot glass on the table (though he'd brought his own from a previous bar fight), sliced a lime with a blade he kept in his boot, and shouted, “TO BAD DECISIONS AND IRRITABLE BOWELS!” The cheer that followed shook the roots of the tree overhead. A hedgehog slurred something about streaking, a satyr passed out before he could object, and someone (no one ever admits who) summoned a conga line that trampled an entire chess game in progress. Chaos bloomed like a moldy turnip—and Finn was at the center, drunker than a troll at Oktoberfest, eyes twinkling like a raccoon who just found an unlocked dumpster. But as the night pressed on, the tequila ran low, the music got weirder, and Finn started asking existential questions no one was prepared to answer, like “Have you ever seen a squirrel cry?” and “What’s the moral weight of drinking pickle brine for money?” And that’s when things took a turn… Tequila Revelations and Mushroom Revelry Now, let’s be clear about something: when a gnome starts philosophizing with a half-empty bottle of Murkwood Gold and a lime wedge clutched in one hand like it’s an emotional support citrus, it’s time to either run or record the whole damn thing for folklore. But none of the drunken degenerates in The Pickled Toadstool had the good sense—or sobriety—for either. So instead, they leaned in. Finn had planted himself atop the bar like a prophet of the porcelain throne, beard stained with tequila dribbles, one boot missing, the other mysteriously containing a goldfish. He pointed to a confused possum wearing a monocle—Sir Slinksworth, who was mostly there for the free peanuts—and bellowed, “YOU. If mushrooms can talk, why don’t they ever text back?” Sir Slinksworth blinked once, adjusted his monocle, and slowly backed away into a broom closet, where he’d remain for the rest of the evening pretending to be a coat rack. Finn’s gaze swept the bar. He grabbed a nearby spoon and raised it like a conductor’s wand. “Ladies. Gentlefolk. Illegally sapient fungi. It’s time... for stories.” A cricket played a dramatic sting on a nearby leaf. Someone farted. And with that, the bar fell silent again as Finn leaned into his legend. “Once,” he began, wobbling slightly, “I kissed a troll under a bridge. She was beautiful in a ‘will definitely murder me’ kind of way. Hair like seaweed and breath like fermented cabbage. Mmm. I was young. I was stupid. I was... unemployed.” Jilly, wiping down the counter with something that might have once been a towel, muttered, “You’re still unemployed.” “Technically,” he countered, “I’m a freelance beverage tester and spiritual consultant.” “Spiritual consultant?” “I consult the spirits. They say, ‘drink more.’” The tavern erupted in cackles. A pixie fell off her stool and knocked over a bowl of glowing slugnuts. A squirrel danced on the bar with two acorns strategically placed where no acorns should be. The conga line had long since devolved into interpretive crawling, and a raccoon was vomiting behind a potted plant named Carl. But then came the lime. No one knows who started it. Some say it was Old Gertie, the barkeep’s pet newt. Others blame the twins—two bipedal weasels named Fizz and Gnarle who’d been banned from three fairy communes for “excessive nibbling.” But what’s certain is this: the lime fight began with one innocent toss... and escalated into full-blown citrus warfare. Finn took a lime square to the forehead and didn't flinch. Instead, he popped it in his mouth and spat the rind out like a watermelon seed, hitting a unicorn in the ear. That unicorn had rage issues. Chaos leveled up. Glass shattered. Someone pulled out a kazoo. The tavern’s chandelier—actually just a tangled wad of spider silk and glowworms—collapsed onto a group of druids who were too busy singing Fleetwood Mac backwards to notice. The air turned thick with lime pulp and salt spray. Finn was hoisted onto the shoulders of two inebriated field mice and declared, by popular vote, the “Minister of Bad Timing.” He waved regally. “I accept this non-consensual nomination with grace and the promise of moderate destruction!” And so, Minister Finn presided over what became known in local legend as The Great Lime Rebellion of Hooten Hollow. By midnight, the bar was a war zone. By 2 a.m., it had become an impromptu poetry slam featuring a drunken centaur who rhymed everything with “butt.” By 3:30, the entire establishment had run out of tequila, salt, limes, and patience. That’s when Jilly rang the bell. A single clang that cut through the noise like a knife through overripe brie. “Last call, you creatures of chaos. Finish your drinks, kiss someone questionable, and get the hell out before I start turning people into decorative mushrooms.” Everyone groaned. Someone actually wept. Finn, still wobbling, now wearing a pirate hat that was definitely a lettuce leaf, raised his shot glass for one final toast. “To terrible choices!” he shouted. “To memories we won’t remember and regrets we’ll enthusiastically repeat!” And with that, the entire bar echoed him back with drunken reverence: “TO GNOME O’CLOCK!” Outside, dawn was beginning to pink the sky. The first birds chirped sweet songs of impending hangovers. The revelers stumbled out, glitter-covered, grass-stained, and partially pantsless—but deeply, sincerely content. Except Finn. Finn wasn’t done yet. He had one more idea. One more terrible, beautiful, lime-soaked idea. And it involved a wheelbarrow, a jug of honey, and the mayor’s prized goose... The Goose, the Glory, and the Gnome Morning dew shimmered on the blades of grass like the universe itself was hungover. A foggy mist rolled across Hooten Hollow, disturbed only by the faint wobble of a single squeaky wheel. That wheel belonged to a rusted, slightly bloodstained wheelbarrow, careening down a slope with all the grace of a goat in roller skates. And at its helm? You guessed it—Finn the gnome, grinning like a maniac who had absolutely no business operating farm equipment. The honey jug was strapped to his chest with twine. The mayor’s goose—Lady Featherstone the Third—was tucked under his arm like an indignant accordion. And the plan? Well, “plan” is a generous word. It was more of a tequila-induced vision involving revenge, animal pageantry, and a deeply misguided attempt to start a new religion centered around fermented agave and poultry-based wisdom. Let’s rewind five minutes. After being ceremoniously ejected from The Pickled Toadstool via slingshot (an annual tradition), Finn had landed squarely in a hedge and muttered something about “divine enlightenment via waterfowl.” He emerged covered in burrs, wild-eyed, and on a mission. That mission, as far as anyone could tell, involved honey-glazing the mayor’s prized goose and declaring her the reincarnation of a forgotten gnome goddess named Quacklarella. Now, Lady Featherstone was not your average goose. She was a biter. A seasoned one. Rumor had it she once chased a dwarf through three provinces for insulting her plumage. She’d survived two magical floods, a karaoke night gone wrong, and a brief stint as an underground fight club champion. She was not, in any realm, fit for religious exploitation. But Finn, drunk on ego and corn liquor he found behind a log, disagreed. He slathered the goose in honey, placed a crown made of cocktail umbrellas on her head, and stood atop a stump to deliver his sermon. “Fellow forest beings!” he declared to a bewildered audience of chipmunks and two hungover dryads. “Behold your sticky savior! Quacklarella demands respect, snacks, and exactly two minutes of synchronized honking in her honor!” The goose, now furious and glistening like a honey-glazed ham, honked once—an unholy, vengeful sound that triggered several squirrels into fight-or-flight responses. Then she snapped her beak shut around Finn’s beard and yanked. What followed was chaos, pure and sweet like the honey still clinging to his socks. The wheelbarrow overturned. Finn tumbled into a patch of stinging nettles. The goose ran off flapping into the sunrise, trailing cocktail umbrellas and gnome curses. The townsfolk woke to find feathers everywhere, the town bell ringing (no one knew how), and a pamphlet nailed to the mayor’s door entitled “Ten Spiritual Lessons from a Goose Who Knew Too Much.” It was mostly blank except for a drawing of a martini glass and a deeply unsettling haiku about egg salad. Later that day, Finn was found passed out in the town fountain wearing nothing but a monocle and a boot filled with mashed peas. He was smiling. When asked what the hell had happened, he opened one eye and whispered, “Revolution… tastes like poultry and shame.” Then he belched, rolled over, and began humming a slow, melodic version of “Livin’ on a Prayer.” That week, the mayor passed a motion banning both goose coronations and gnome-led sermons within town limits. Finn was put on probation, which meant nothing, as he hadn’t followed rules since the invention of pickled turnips. Still, to this day, when the moon is full and the lime trees bloom, whispers travel through Hooten Hollow. They say you can hear the flapping of honey-soaked wings and the faint sound of a shot glass being slammed on ancient oak. And if you’re very quiet... you might just catch a glimpse of a bearded figure staggering through the woods, muttering about limes and lost royalty. Because some legends wear crowns. Others ride noble steeds. And some? Some wear a lettuce hat and rule the night... one bad decision at a time.     Bring the legend home: If Finn’s tequila-fueled chaos made you snort, giggle, or question your life choices, you're in good company. Commemorate this tipsy tale with exclusive merch from our Last Call at Gnome O’Clock collection. Whether you're into crisp metal prints, cozy wood prints, a cheeky greeting card to send to your drinking buddy, or a spiral notebook for your own questionable ideas—this collection captures every ounce of forest-fueled mischief and lime-soaked nonsense. Warning: may inspire spontaneous conga lines and unsolicited sermons.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

Cranky Wings & Cabernet Things

The Root of All Sass The forest hadn’t always been this irritating. Once upon a century or three ago, it was a quiet, dewy glade where deer pranced, squirrels politely asked to borrow acorns, and the mushrooms didn’t have delusions of poetry. Then came the influencers. The elf-folk with their glittery yoga mats. The centaur DJs thumping trance beats into the soil. And worst of all—gentrification by unicorns. Just because they crap rainbows doesn’t mean they belong on every enchanted hillside selling kombucha out of crystal flasks. She had had it. Her name was Fernetta D'Vine—though the locals just called her “That Wine Bitch in the Thicket.” And she was fine with that. Titles were for royalty and real estate agents. Fernetta was far more interested in her own domains: the mossy log she ruled from, her deep collection of fermented potions, and the daily ritual of glaring disapprovingly at every twit who dared prance past her glade without a permit—or pants. Today was a Tuesday. And Tuesdays were for Cabernet and contempt. Fernetta adjusted her wings with a groan. The years had left them creaky, like an old screen door that screamed when you opened it at 2 a.m. to sneak out for questionable decisions. Her dress, a glorious tangle of ivy and attitude, brushed the ground with a stately rustle as she lifted her goblet—no stemless nonsense here, thank you—and took a sip of what she called “Bitch Blood Vintage 436.” “Mm,” she muttered, eyes narrowing like a hawk spotting a tourist. “Tastes like regret and someone else's poor planning.” Just then, a chirpy little sprite buzzed into view, high on pollen and bad decisions. She wore a sunflower bra and had glitter in places that clearly hadn't been cleaned in days. “Hi Auntie Fernetta!” she squealed. “Guess what? I’m starting an herbal side hustle and wanted to gift you my new line of detox beetle-water enemas!” Fernetta blinked slowly. “Child, the only thing I detox is joy,” she said. “And if you flutter one wing closer with that fermented insect filth, I will personally shove that potion up your nectar hole and call it aromatherapy.” The sprite’s smile faltered. “Okayyy…well…namast-eeeeee!” she buzzed, zooming off to terrorize a willow tree. Fernetta took another sip, savoring the silence. It tasted like power. And maybe a little like last week’s berries soaked in disappointment, but still—power. “Fairies these days,” she muttered. “All glitter, no grit. No wonder the gnomes have gone into hiding. Hell, I’d hide too if my neighbors were lighting sage to align their chakra while farting through recycled leaves.” Just then, the rustling of bushes drew her attention. She slowly turned her head and muttered, “Oh look. Another woodland dumbass. If it’s one more damn bard looking for ‘inspiration,’ I swear by the crust in my wings I’ll hex his lute so it plays only Nickelback covers.” And from the underbrush stepped someone... unexpected. A man. Human. Middle-aged. Balding. Slightly confused and definitely in the wrong fairytale. He blinked. She blinked. A crow cawed. Somewhere in the distance, a mushroom wilted from secondhand embarrassment. “...Well,” Fernetta drawled, slowly standing. “This should be good.” Man Meat and Mossy Mayhem He stood there, mouth slightly ajar, looking like a half-baked biscuit who’d wandered into a renaissance faire after taking the wrong turn at a Cracker Barrel. Fernetta sized him up like a wolf eyeing a microwaved ham. He was wearing cargo shorts, a “World’s Best Dad” T-shirt that had clearly surrendered to time and coffee stains, and a confused expression that suggested he thought this was the line for the gift shop. In one hand he held a phone, blinking red with 3% battery. In the other, a laminated trail map. Upside down. “Oh,” she sighed, swirling her cabernet. “You’re one of those. Lost, divorced, definitely on your third midlife crisis. Lemme guess—you signed up for a ‘healing hike’ with your yoga instructor-slash-girlfriend named Amethyst and got ditched at the crystal cairn?” He blinked. “Uh… is this part of the nature tour?” She took one long, slow sip. “Oh sweetheart. This is the of your dignity tour.” He stepped forward. “Look, I’m just trying to get back to the parking lot, okay? My phone’s dead, and I haven’t had coffee in six hours. Also, I may have accidentally eaten a mushroom that was… glowy.” Fernetta chuckled, low and wicked, like a storm cloud amused at the idea of a picnic. “Well then. Congratulations, dumbass. You just licked the universe’s glitter cannon. That was a dreamcap. The next three hours are going to feel like you're being spiritually exfoliated by a raccoon wearing a therapist’s pants.” He swayed slightly. “I think I saw a talking chipmunk that said I was a disappointment to my ancestors.” “Well,” she said, slapping a mosquito off her shoulder with the grace of a drunk ballerina, “at least your hallucinations are honest.” She turned away, refilling her wine from a nearby stump that was—improbably—tapped like a keg. “So what’s your name, forest trespasser?” “Uh. Brent.” “Of course it is,” she muttered. “Every lost man who stumbles into my part of the woods is either named Brent, Chad, or Gary. You boys just roll off the production line with a six-pack of poor decisions and one good college memory you won’t shut up about.” He frowned. “Look, lady—fairy—whatever. I’m not trying to cause trouble. I just need to find the exit. If you could point me to the trailhead, I’d be—” “Oh, honey,” she interrupted, “the only head you’re getting is the one from the hallucination beaver who thinks you’re his ex-wife. You’re in my glade now. And we don’t just offer directions. We offer... lessons.” Brent paled. “Like... riddles?” “No. Like unsolicited life advice wrapped in sarcasm and aged in shame,” she said, raising her glass. “Now sit your crusty behind on that toadstool and brace yourself for an aggressive fairy intervention.” He hesitated. The toadstool made a suspicious farting noise as he lowered himself onto it. “What… kind of intervention?” Fernetta cracked her knuckles and summoned a cloud of wine vapor and attitude. “We’re gonna unpack your issues like a suitcase at a nudist colony. First of all: why the hell do you still wear socks with sandals?” “I—” “Don’t answer. I already know. It’s because you fear vulnerability. And fashion.” Brent blinked. “This feels… deeply personal.” “Welcome to the glade,” she smirked. “Now, tell me: who hurt you? Was it your ex-wife? Your daddy? A failed podcast about cryptocurrency?” “I… I don’t know anymore.” “That’s step one, Brent,” she said, standing tall, her wings shimmering with drunken menace. “Admit that you’re not lost in the woods. You are the woods. Dense. Confused. Filled with raccoons stealing your lunch.” Somewhere in the distance, a tree spontaneously caught fire out of sheer secondhand embarrassment. Brent looked like he was about to cry. Or pee. Or both. “And while we’re at it,” Fernetta snapped, “when did you stop doing things that made you happy? When did you trade wonder for spreadsheets and excitement for microwave burritos? Huh? You had magic once. I can smell it under your armpits, right between the regret and Axe body spray.” Brent whimpered. “Can I go now?” “No,” she said firmly. “Not until you’ve purged all the bro energy from your soul. Now repeat after me: I am not a productivity robot.” “…I am not a productivity robot.” “I deserve joy, even if that joy is weird and sparkly.” “…even if that joy is weird and sparkly.” “I will stop asking to ‘circle back’ during Zoom calls unless I’m literally chasing my own tail.” “…That one’s… hard.” “Try harder. You’re almost healed.” And just like that, the glade shimmered. The trees sighed. A chorus of frogs sang the opening bars of a Lizzo song. Brent’s third eye blinked open just long enough to witness a vision of himself as a disco lizard dancing on a tax return. He passed out cold. Fernetta poured the rest of her wine into the moss and said, “Another one converted. Praise Dionysus.” She sat back on her log, exhaled deeply, and added, “And that’s why you never ignore a fairy with wine and unresolved emotional bandwidth.” Hangover of the Fey Brent awoke face-down in moss, his cheek pressed lovingly against what may or may not have been a mushroom with opinions. The sun filtered through the treetops like judgmental fingers poking a sleeping shame sandwich. His head throbbed with the kind of ancient drumbeat usually reserved for tribal exorcisms and EDM festivals in abandoned warehouses. He groaned. The moss squelched back. Everything hurt—including some existential parts of him that had been long dormant, like hope, ambition, and the idea of ordering something other than chicken tenders at restaurants. Somewhere behind him, a teacup-sized voice chirped, “He lives! The human rises!” He rolled over to see a hedgehog. A talking hedgehog. Wearing a monocle. Smoking what was clearly a cinnamon stick fashioned into a pipe. “What fresh hell…” he muttered. “Oh, you’re awake,” came Fernetta’s voice, laced with her usual brand of sarcasm and sage-like disdain. “For a minute I thought you’d gone fully feral and joined the bark nymphs. Which, by the way, never do. They’ll braid your chest hair into dreamcatchers and call it a vibe.” Brent blinked. “I had… dreams.” “Hallucinations,” corrected the hedgehog, who offered him a shot glass of something that smelled like peppermint and regret. “Drink this. It’ll balance your aura and possibly reset your digestive tract. No promises.” Brent drank it. He instantly regretted it. His tongue recoiled, his toes curled, and he sneezed his deepest shame into a nearby fern. “Perfect,” said Fernetta, clapping. “You’ve completed the cleanse.” “Cleanse?” “The Spiritual Audit, darling,” she said, fluttering down from a branch like a disillusioned angel of sarcasm. “You’ve been assessed, emotionally undressed, and gently smacked with the stick of self-awareness.” Brent looked down at himself. He was wearing a crown made of twigs, a tunic fashioned from moss and squirrel fur, and a necklace of... teeth? “What the hell happened?” Fernetta smirked, taking another languid sip from her ever-present wine glass. “You got fairy drunk, emotionally baptized in pond water, told a fox your deepest fears, slow-danced with a sentient daffodil, and yelled ‘I AM THE STORM’ while peeing on a rune stone. Honestly, I’ve seen worse Tuesdays.” The hedgehog nodded solemnly. “You also tried to start a commune for divorced dads called ‘Dadbodonia.’ It lasted fourteen minutes and ended in a heated debate about chili recipes.” Brent groaned into his hands. “I was just trying to go on a hike.” “No one just hikes into my glade,” Fernetta said, poking him with her wine glass. “You were summoned. This place finds you when you’re on the brink. Teetering on the edge of becoming a motivational meme. I saved you from dad jokes and sports metaphors for feelings.” Brent looked around. The forest suddenly felt different. The light warmer. The colors sharper. The air thick with mischief and mossy wisdom. “So… what now?” “Now you leave,” Fernetta said, “but you leave better. Slightly less of a tool. Maybe even worthy of brunch conversation. Go forth into the world, Brent. And remember what you’ve learned.” “Which was…?” “Stop dimming your weird. Stop apologizing for being tired. Stop saying ‘let’s touch base’ unless you mean physically, with someone hot. And never—ever—bring boxed wine into a sacred grove again or I’ll hex your plumbing.” The hedgehog saluted. “May your midlife crisis be mystical.” Brent, still blinking in disbelief, took a few tentative steps. A squirrel waved him goodbye. A pinecone winked. A raccoon dropped a single acorn at his feet in symbolic solidarity. He turned once more to look at Fernetta. She raised her glass. “Now go. And if you get lost again, make it interesting.” And with that, Brent stumbled out of the glade and back into the world, smelling of moss, magic, and a hint of Cabernet. Somewhere deep inside, something had changed. Maybe not enough to make him wise. But enough to make him weird. And that, in fairy terms, was progress. Back in her glade, Fernetta sighed, stretched, and settled back on her mossy throne. “Well,” she muttered, sipping again. “Guess I’ll do mushrooms for dinner. Hope they don’t talk back this time.” And somewhere in the trees, the forest whispered, laughed, and poured another round.     🍷 Feeling personally attacked by Fernetta's sass? Well, now you can hang her grumpy face on your wall like a badge of chaotic enlightenment. Click here to see the full image in our Fantasy Characters Archive and grab your very own print, framed masterpiece, or license-worthy download. Perfect for wine witches, forest freaks, or anyone whose soul runs on sarcasm and Cabernet. Because let’s be honest—you either know a Fernetta… or you are one.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow

The Hat That Bit Back By the time Glumbella Fernwhistle turned ninety-seven-and-a-half, she’d stopped pretending her hat wasn’t alive. It gurgled when she yawned, belched when she ate lentils, and once slapped a squirrel clean out of a tree for looking at her mushrooms the wrong way. And not metaphorical mushrooms, mind you—actual fungi sprouting from the side of her floppy, overgrown headpiece. She called it Carl. Carl the Hat. Carl did not approve of sobriety, shame, or squirrels. This suited Glumbella just fine. She lived in a cobbled mushroom cottage on the edge of Hooten Hollow, a place so full of mischief that the trees had mood swings and the moss had opinions. Glumbella was the kind of gnome you didn’t visit unless you brought both a bottle and an apology—for what, you weren’t always sure. She had a cackle like a goat in therapy and a tongue so frequently stuck out it had developed a tan. But what really made Glumbella infamous was the night she made the moon blush. It started, as most regrettable triumphs do, with a dare. Her neighbor, Tildy Grizzleblum—renowned inventor of the self-stirring gravy cauldron—bet Glumbella ten copper buttons she couldn’t seduce the moon. Glumbella, three elderberry wines in and barefoot, had climbed to the top of Flasher’s Bluff, bared one spectacularly unfiltered grin, and shouted, “OI! MOON! You big glowing tease! Show us yer craters!” The moon, previously considered emotionally distant, turned pink for the first time in recorded history. Tildy never paid up. Claimed the blush was atmospheric disturbance. Glumbella hexed her gravy to taste like regret for a week. It was the talk of the Hollow until the time Glumbella accidentally married a toad. But that’s a whole other issue involving a cursed wedding veil and a case of mistaken identity during mating season. Still, nothing in her long, outrageously inappropriate life prepared her for the arrival of HIM. A forest path, a suspicious breeze, and one very disheveled male gnome with eyes like drunken chestnuts. She could smell trouble. And a hint of old socks. Her favorite combination. “You lost, sweetcheeks?” she asked, lips curled, Carl twitching with interest. He didn’t blink. Just grinned with a mouth full of crooked charm and said, “Only if you say no.” And just like that, the Hollow was no longer the weirdest thing in Glumbella’s life. He was. Spells, Sass, and One Regrettable Pickle He called himself Bramble. No last name. Just Bramble. Which was, of course, either suspicious or sexy. Possibly both. Glumbella squinted at him the way one examines mold on cheese—trying to decide if it added flavor or would cause hallucinations. Carl the Hat drooped slightly in what might’ve been approval. Or gas. No one could ever tell with Carl. “So,” Glumbella said, leaning against a crooked fencepost with all the grace of a drunk poetry critic, “you show up here with those boots—muddy, charming, criminally well-worn—and that beard that’s clearly never met a comb, and expect me not to ask where you’re hiding your motives?” Bramble chuckled, a low, gravel-smooth sound that tickled her mossy instincts. “I’m just a wanderer,” he said, “looking for trouble.” “You found it,” she grinned. “And she bites.” They traded words like potions—some bubbling with innuendo, others fizzing with sarcasm. The gnomes of Hooten Hollow weren’t known for subtlety, but even Glumbella’s porch toad stopped sunbathing to observe the sparks flying. Within the hour, Bramble had accepted an invitation into her kitchen, where the mugs were mismatched, the wine was elderberry and defiant, and every single piece of furniture had at least one embarrassing story attached to it. “That chair over there,” she said, pointing with a ladle, “once hosted an orgy of pixies during a midsummer moon rave. Still smells like glitter and fermented rose hips.” Bramble sat in it without hesitation. “Now I’m even more comfortable.” Carl let out a low hum. The hat was always a little jealous. It had once hexed a suitor’s beard into a nest for furious hummingbirds. But Carl… Carl liked Bramble. Not trust, not yet. But interest. Carl only drooled on things he wanted to keep. Bramble got drooled on. A lot. As the wine flowed, the conversation turned slippery. Spells were swapped like dirty jokes. Glumbella showed off her prized collection of cursed socks—each one stolen from mysterious laundry disappearances across dimensions. Bramble, in turn, revealed a tattoo on his hip that could whisper insults in seventeen languages. “Say something in Gobbledygroan,” she purred. “It just called you a ‘shimmer-skulled minx with wild cabbage energy.’” She nearly choked on her wine. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me this decade.” Their evening escalated into potion pong (she won), a one-on-one broom jousting match (she also won, but he looked great falling), and a heated debate over whether moonlight was better for hexes or skinny-dipping (jury's still out). At some point, Bramble dared her to let Carl cast a spell unsupervised. “Are you mad?” she cried. “Carl once tried to turn a goose into a loaf of bread and ended up with a squawking baguette that still haunts my pantry.” “I live dangerously,” Bramble grinned. “And you’re obviously into chaos.” “Well,” she said, standing dramatically and knocking over a bottle of sparkle tonic, “I suppose it’s not a proper Tuesday until something catches fire or someone gets kissed.” And that was how Bramble ended up stuck to the ceiling. Carl, in a rare mood of cooperation, had tried to conjure a “romantic levitation spell.” It worked. Too well. Bramble hovered upside down, flailing, one sock falling off while Glumbella roared with laughter and took notes on a napkin titled “future foreplay ideas.” “How long does this last?” Bramble asked from above, spinning slowly. “Oh, I’d guess until the hat gets bored or until you compliment my knees,” she smirked. He eyed her legs. “Sturdy as a spellbound oak and twice as enchanting.” With a dramatic “fwoomp,” he fell directly into her arms. She dropped him, naturally, because she was built for insults and wine, not bridal carries. They landed in a heap of limbs, lace, and one rather smug hat who casually slithered off Glumbella’s head to claim the wine bottle for itself. “Carl’s gone rogue,” she muttered. “Does this mean the date’s going well?” Bramble asked, breathless. “Sweetcheeks,” she said, brushing leaf confetti from his beard, “if this were going badly, you’d already be a frog wearing a tutu and begging for flies.” And just like that, a new kind of trouble rooted itself in Hooten Hollow—a mischievous, magnetic, absolutely inadvisable connection between a gnome witch with no filter and a rogue wanderer who smiled like he knew how to start fires with compliments. Toads began gossiping. The trees leaned closer. Carl sharpened his brim. The Hangover, The Hex, and The Honeymoon (Not Necessarily In That Order) The next morning smelled like regret, roasted acorns, and singed beard hair. Bramble awoke dangling upside-down in a hammock made entirely of enchanted laundry, his left eyebrow missing and his right one twitching in Morse code. Carl was perched beside him with an empty flask and a threatening gleam in his brim. “Good morning, you rakish woodland degenerate,” Glumbella chirped from the garden, dressed in a scandalously mossy robe and wielding a trowel like a sword. “You shrieked in your sleep. Either you were dreaming of tax audits or you’re allergic to flirtation.” “I dreamed I was a zucchini,” he groaned. “Being judged. By squirrels.” She cackled so hard a tomato blushed. “Then we’re progressing nicely.” The Hollow was in full gossip bloom. Gnomelings whispered of a courtship forged in chaos. The Elder Council sent Glumbella a strongly worded scroll urging “discretion, decency, and pants.” She framed it above her loo. Bramble, now semi-resident and fully shirtless 60% of the time, fit into the ecosystem like a charming virus. Plants leaned toward him. Crickets composed sonnets about his butt. Carl hissed when they kissed, but only out of habit. And then came the Pickle Incident. It started with a potion. Always does. Glumbella had been experimenting with a “Love Me, Loathe Me, Lick Me” elixir—allegedly a mild flirtation enhancer. She left it on the kitchen shelf labeled Not For Bramble, which of course ensured that Bramble would absolutely drink it by accident while trying to pickle beets. The result? He fell desperately, dramatically in love with a jar of fermented cucumbers. “She understands me,” he declared, cradling the jar, eyes misty. “She’s complex. Salty. A little spicy.” Glumbella responded with a hex so potent it briefly turned him into a sentient sandwich. He still has nightmares about mayonnaise therapy. Once the elixir wore off (with the help of two sarcastic fairies, one slap from Carl, and a kiss so aggressive it startled a flock of crows), Bramble regained his senses. He apologized by crafting her a love letter out of enchanted leaves that screamed compliments when read aloud. The neighbors complained. Glumbella cried once—silently, while pouring wine into her boots. Eventually, the Hollow began to accept the duo as a necessary evil. Like seasonal flooding or emotionally unstable hedgehogs. The town bakery started selling “Carl Crust” sourdough. The local tavern offered a cocktail called the “Witch’s Whiplash”—two parts elderberry brandy, one part seductive regret. Tourists wandered into the woods hoping to see the infamous hat-witch and her dangerously handsome consort. Most of them got lost. One married a tree. It happens. But Glumbella and Bramble? They simply… thrived. Like fungus in a damp drawer. They didn’t marry in any traditional sense. There were no doves or rings or solemn declarations. Instead, one foggy morning, Glumbella woke to find Bramble had carved their initials into the moon using a stolen weather spell and a goat with anxiety issues. The moon blinked twice. Carl sang a sea shanty. And that was that. They celebrated by getting drunk in a treehouse, racing leaf-boats in the river, and aggressively ignoring the concept of monogamy for six months straight. It was perfect. Some say their laughter still echoes through the Hollow. Others claim Carl runs a poker game on Wednesdays and cheats with his brim. One thing’s for certain: if you ever find yourself lost in Hooten Hollow and stumble upon a wild-haired witch with a wicked grin and a man beside her who looks like he just kissed a tornado, you’ve found them. Don’t stare. Don’t judge. And absolutely do not touch the hat. It bites.     Bring the Magic Home If Glumbella’s sass, Bramble’s charm, and Carl’s unpredictable brim made you laugh, blush, or consider abandoning your career for a life of enchanted chaos—why not invite their mischief into your space? Explore a range of beautifully printed keepsakes inspired by The Howling Hat of Hooten Hollow—each crafted with care to bring a touch of forest whimsy and gnomish delight into your everyday world: Tapestry – Transform any room with this richly detailed woven tapestry featuring Glumbella in all her wild glory. Wood Print – Add rustic charm to your walls with this vibrant artwork printed on smooth wood grain—just like Carl would want (assuming he approved). Framed Print – A classic option for lovers of fantasy art and chaotic gnome energy—framed, ready to hang, and guaranteed to make guests ask questions. Fleece Blanket – Cozy up with a blanket that captures the warmth, whimsy, and low-key seduction of a magical night in Hooten Hollow. Greeting Card – Send a giggle, a wink, or a mild hex in the mail with a card featuring this unforgettable scene. Each item is perfect for fans of whimsical fantasy, mischievous storytelling, and the kind of art that feels alive (possibly sentient, definitely opinionated). Find your favorite at shop.unfocussed.com and let the spirit of Hooten Hollow haunt your heart—and maybe your guest room.

Contes capturés – par Bill Tiepelman

The Woodland Wisecracker

The Bark Behind the Giggle Deep in the rustling bowels of Elderbark Woods—where the ferns gossip louder than the crows and the mushrooms have cliques—there lives a gnome with a laugh like a strangled squirrel and a tongue quicker than a squirrel on mead. His name? No one really knows. Most call him “That Damned Gnome” or, more respectfully, The Woodland Wisecracker. He’s ancient in gnome years, which is already saying something, because gnomes start sprouting gray whiskers before they’re out of diapers. But this one’s been around long enough to prank a dryad’s sacred tree, live to tell about it, and then prank it again just because he didn’t like the sap tone she used when she caught him the first time. His hat is a collage of past indiscretions—berries he stole from witch-purses, mushrooms “borrowed” from faerie circles, and a tuft of dire squirrel tail he claims was won in a poker game (no one believes him, especially not the squirrels). His days are a tapestry of mischief. Today, he had rigged a family of tree frogs to croak in unison every time someone passed the old cedar latrine. Yesterday, he spelled the badger’s burrow to smell like elderflower perfume—an incident still being litigated in the unofficial woodland court of “WTF Did You Just Do, Gary?” But it wasn’t always like this. The Wisecracker had once been a promising woodland historian, with impeccable footnotes and a genuine fondness for moss classification. That was until the Great Incident—a scholarly disagreement over whether blue moss was just green moss with sass. It ended with a symposium ruined by glitterbombs, an angry dryad boycott, and one furious troll with sparkles in places no troll should sparkle. Since then, the Wisecracker had chosen a more... recreational route through life. He lived in a hollowed-out stump stacked with scrolls, frog jokes, and an ever-replenishing jar of fermented beet liquor. Nobody knew where it came from. It was just there. Like his opinions. Loud. Uninvited. And usually followed by a prank involving slippery root polish or magically animated underpants. It was on a bright, dew-fresh morning—one of those disgustingly poetic ones that inspires woodland critters to hum showtunes—that the Wisecracker decided it was time to raise the stakes. The forest had gotten too cozy. Too polite. Even the weasels were organizing book clubs. “Unacceptable,” he muttered to his toadstool seat, scratching his chin with a twig he’d sharpened purely for dramatic effect. “If they want wholesome... I’ll give them wholesome. With a side of explosive berry jam.” And so began the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season—a campaign destined to scandalize nymphs, enrage beetles, and firmly cement the Wisecracker’s legacy as the most unrepentant little bastard the woodland had ever loved to hate. Of Pranks, Pheromones, and Poorly Timed Potion Eruptions The Wisecracker, being a gnome of refined nonsense, knew the key to a truly memorable prank wasn’t mere humiliation—it was poetic humiliation. There had to be timing. Artistry. A dramatic arc. Ideally, pantslessness. And so, the first phase of the Grand Forest Prank War of the Season began at dawn... with a basket of enchanted berries and a pheromone spell so potent it could make a rock pine for a cuddle. He left the basket at the foot of the Council Glade, where forestfolk gathered for their weekly “Mediation and Mutual Squeaking” circle. Inside were berries infused with giggleleaf oil, tickle spores, and just a pinch of something he called “pixie pheroblaster”—a substance banned in at least seven counties and one very traumatized fairy convent. By noon, the glade had descended into full chaos. An elderly squirrel began slow-dancing with a pinecone. Two wood nymphs started a vigorous debate on the ethics of licking tree sap straight from the bark—with full demonstration. And one unfortunate owl began hooting at its own reflection in a puddle, proclaiming it “the only bird who understands me.” When the Council tried to investigate, they found nothing but a calling card left under the basket: a crude drawing of a gnome mooning a pine tree with “KISS THIS, TREE-HUGGERS” written in aggressive mushroom ink. “It’s him again,” groaned Elder Wyrmbark, a centuries-old talking stump with the patience of a Buddhist snail and the libido of a very lonely log. “The Wisecracker’s struck again.” As expected, the forest community was split. Half declared war. The other half requested recipe tips. Meanwhile, the gnome himself was busy working on Phase Two: Operation Hot-Buns. This involved rerouting the fae hot spring using a system of enchanted hoses (which he had borrowed—permanently—from a disgraced water elemental with intimacy issues). By midafternoon, the pixies’ annual Full Moon Tan-athon was a steamy, bubbling geyser of screeches and rapidly evaporating modesty. “They were this close to inventing bikini lines,” he whispered proudly to a nearby beetle, who stared back with the thousand-yard gaze of someone who’d seen things no beetle should. But not every scheme went perfectly. Take, for instance, the romantic detour. You see, the Wisecracker had a complicated relationship with one Miss Bramblevine—a half-sprite, half-briar bush enchantress who had once kissed him, slapped him, then enchanted his eyebrows to grow in reverse. He still hadn’t forgiven her. Or stopped writing letters he never sent. One evening, he found her in a clearing, muttering incantations and plucking suspiciously romantic-sounding harp chords. She was conjuring a love aura for woodland speed dating. Naturally, he couldn’t let this travesty of intimacy unfold un-messed-with. He approached her with his usual charm—wearing nothing but a smile, a leaf thong, and one boot (the other was being used by a family of hedgehogs for tax reasons). “Fancy seeing you here,” he winked, leaning seductively against a log that immediately crumbled. “Care to sample a little homemade ‘gnomebrew’? It’s got notes of regret and wild raspberry.” “Still trying to seduce the entire underbrush with your fermented nonsense?” she smirked, but took the flask. She sniffed, gagged, and downed it in one swig. “Still tastes like broken promises and bat piss.” “You always said I was consistent.” There was a moment. A dangerous, sparkling, “should-we-or-should-we-not-do-this-again” kind of moment. Then her hair caught fire. Gently. Softly. Because the gnome had, regrettably, spiced the batch with firefern for “zest.” “DID YOU JUST—” “I panicked! It was supposed to be seductive! Do NOT explode the frogs again!” It was too late. Her rage spell detonated the decorative frog choir he’d hidden in the nearby bush. The explosion scattered musical amphibians across the glade. One of them croaked the opening bars of a Barry White song before going silent forever. The Wisecracker fled, his one boot flapping, hair full of harp strings, heart beating to the tempo of his own mischief. He’d have to lay low—maybe in the badger tunnels. Maybe in Bramblevine’s heart. Maybe both. He liked it complicated. And yet, the forest was now alive with energy. Pranks were spreading like spores in springtime. Hedgehog street art. Raccoon rap battles. A mysterious new trend where squirrels wore tiny mustaches and conducted acorn inspections. The Wisecracker’s influence was seeping through the roots themselves. It wasn’t just about giggles anymore. It was an uprising. A forest-wide movement of snark and subversion. And at the center of it all, the little gnome with the too-wide grin, a dangerously overstocked arsenal of practical jokes, and absolutely no sense of when to stop. He climbed atop his mossy throne that night, arms wide to the stars, and bellowed into the canopy: “LET THE THIRD PHASE COMMENCE!” Somewhere in the dark, an owl pooped itself. A frog sang again. And the trees braced themselves for what came next. Mayhem, Moss, and the Moonlit Tribunal of Shenanigans The forest had reached critical silliness. The squirrels had unionized. The frogs had formed a jazz trio. A fox began charging admission to watch a raccoon and a badger fight in interpretive dance. Everywhere, everywhere, the Wisecracker’s influence oozed like glittery tree sap—mischief, whimsy, chaos, and just a splash of low-grade arson. It was time. Not for another prank. No. This was beyond mischief. This was legacy. This... was The Final Gag. But first, he needed a diversion. And so he called upon his most loyal allies: the Truffle Dancers—a group of rotund, semi-retired badgers who owed him a favor from that one time he helped hide their mushroom moonshine still from the ranger fauns. “I need you to stage a performance,” he said, adjusting his ceremonial prank hat (a regular hat, but covered in feathers, jam stains, and live beetles trained to spell rude words). “Interpretive?” asked Bunt, the lead badger, already oiling his hip joints with pine resin. “Explosive,” said the gnome. “There will be glitter. There will be jazz. There may be screams.” By twilight, the clearing behind the Elderbark Grove was filled with an audience of questionable sobriety and wildly varying consent levels. Bramblevine was there, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, already holding a small fireball in one hand and a healing salve in the other. Duality. The performance began. Fog. Dramatic torchlight. Bunt spinning like an angry cinnamon roll. The badgers twerked. A ferret wept. Somewhere, a crow squawked the Wilhelm scream. But just as the grand finale began—with a chorus of frogs launching bottle rockets from their mouths—everything froze. A thunderclap echoed across the forest. The glade went dead silent. Even the beetles spelling out “FLAPSACK” paused mid-A. From the sky descended a giant pair of moss-covered sandals, attached to the spectral form of Grandfather Spriggan, the ancient forest spirit and reluctant enforcer of natural order (and, regrettably, trousers). “ENOUGH,” the spirit bellowed, voice like thunder wrapped in nettles. “THE BALANCE HAS BEEN UNPRANKED.” The forest tribunal convened on the spot. Spectators transformed into a jury of woodland peers: a stork, three indignant squirrels, one disapproving mole with bifocals, and a toad who seemed entirely too into the drama. The charge? Crimes against quietude, reckless charm, unauthorized enchantment of raccoon tail accessories, and the willful violation of Article 7B of the Woodland Code: “Thou shalt not install fart noises in sacred glens.” The Wisecracker stood accused. Shirtless. Glorious. Holding a bottle of homemade sparkling bogwater and still slightly singed from a previous glitter incident. “How do you plead?” asked the Grandfather, his sandals creaking ominously. “I plead... absolutely fabulous,” the gnome said, performing a pirouette and releasing a smoke bomb shaped like a duck. The duck quacked. Dramatically. Gasps echoed through the clearing. Somewhere, a pinecone fainted. The tribunal descended into chaos. The jury broke into argument. The squirrels wanted exile. The mole demanded public shaming. The toad proposed something involving marmalade and a haunted bidet. Bramblevine watched it all with a look that blended admiration and homicidal irritation. But then... silence. The Grandfather raised one hand. “Let the accused make a final statement.” The Wisecracker took the stand—a stump with a suspiciously familiar frog perched on it—and cleared his throat. “Friends. Foes. Sap-suckers of all types. I do not deny my pranks. I embrace them. I curate them. This forest was growing dull. The squirrels were starting to quote Plato. The moss had formed a jazz quartet called 'Soft & Moist.' We were becoming... tasteful.” He shuddered. So did the jazz moss. “Yes, I spiced your spring festivals with nude raccoons and enchanted whistles. Yes, I bewitched an entire weasel choir to sing bawdy limericks in front of the Sacred Hollow. But I did it because I love this forest. And because I’m just the right kind of emotionally stunted chaos goblin to think it’s funny.” A pause. A silence thicker than badger gravy. Then... the toad applauded. Slowly. Then maniacally. The crowd followed. A frog exploded in joy (literally—he was part balloon). Even Grandfather Spriggan cracked what might have been a mossy smirk. “Very well,” the old spirit said. “Your punishment... is to continue.” “...Wait, what?” said the gnome. “You are hereby appointed the Official Prank Warden of Elderbark Woods. You will balance mischief with magic. Bring chaos where there is order. And order where there is too much bean stew. You shall report directly to me—and to Bramblevine, because someone has to keep you from dying in a frog-related accident.” “I accept,” the gnome said, straightening his beetle-feather hat with surprising gravity. Then he turned to Bramblevine. “So... drinks?” She rolled her eyes. “One. But if your flask smells like regret again, I’m setting your left nipple on fire.” “Deal.” And so it was that the Woodland Wisecracker ascended—not to glory, but to legend. A gnome of gags, a prophet of prankery, a messiah of magical mischief whose deeds would echo through the roots and leaves for ages. The frogs would sing songs. The beetles would spell tributes. And somewhere, in the warm belly of the woods, a badger would shake its hips... just for him. Long live the Wisecracker.     Bring the mischief home! If the antics of the Woodland Wisecracker made you snort, chuckle, or question the life choices of certain amphibians, you can now immortalize his chaos in your own realm. Whether you’re decorating a den worthy of enchanted badgers or searching for the perfect gift for that lovable troublemaker in your life, we’ve got you covered: Adorn your walls with a vibrant tapestry that captures his gnomey glory in full chaotic bloom, or go bold with a glossy metal print or dazzling acrylic display worthy of a tribunal hall. For cozy nights of mischief planning (or regretful introspection), wrap yourself in our luxuriously soft fleece blanket. And don’t forget to send someone a laugh (or a gentle warning) with our delightfully irreverent greeting card featuring the Wisecracker himself. Claim a piece of the prankster’s legacy—and let your decor cackle with character.