Crass fairy tale

par Bill Tiepelman

Grumpy Rain Sprite

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

par Bill Tiepelman

Old Magic and Stale Ale

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