par Bill Tiepelman
The Raindrop Rider
The Elf Who Wouldn’t Stay Dry Once upon a drizzle, in a forest where the ferns gossiped louder than drunk pixies and the moss had an opinion about everything, there lived a tiny elf named Pipwick. Pipwick was not what you’d call a “model elf.” He wasn’t elegant, or noble, or particularly good at remembering to wear pants. Instead, Pipwick was an enthusiastic disaster wrapped in pointy ears and impulsive decisions. His hobbies included heckling beetles, inventing swear words for mud, and laughing so hard at his own jokes that he sometimes passed out in tree hollows. He was, in short, chaos with freckles. Now, most elves carried themselves with grace and dignity, especially when it came to inclement weather. They wore cloaks woven from moonlight and spider silk. They danced delicately between raindrops like ballerinas who’d studied choreography with the clouds. Pipwick, however, believed that umbrellas, hoods, and anything resembling “common sense” were a conspiracy invented by elves who filed their toenails and paid taxes on time. He refused to stay dry. In fact, he insisted on getting wetter than strictly necessary. If rain was nature’s way of telling you to slow down, Pipwick’s response was to sprint shirtless through puddles while hollering like a deranged warlord. So it wasn’t surprising that on one particularly gloomy afternoon, as the heavens ripped open with sheets of silver water, Pipwick sprinted into a meadow of daisies, screaming at the sky: “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT? I’VE SEEN SPITIER SHOWERS FROM SNEEZING GNOMES!” The daisies, who were trying very hard to look dignified despite being thrashed by the storm, groaned collectively. “Oh no,” sighed one particularly tall bloom. “He’s climbing us again.” And sure enough, Pipwick threw himself onto a daisy stem like a cowboy mounting a very confused horse. He wrapped his stubby fingers around it, his little rump squishing against the wet petals, and screamed with joy: “YEEHAW! THE RAINDROP EXPRESS HAS NO BRAKES!” Immediately, the storm turned his blue romper into a second skin, clinging tighter than an overeager ex who “just wants closure.” His platinum-blond hair stood in jagged spikes, as if a hedgehog had exploded on his head. Water streamed down his pointed ears and dripped from his button nose, but instead of looking miserable like a normal creature, Pipwick looked like he was auditioning for the role of “Tiny Idiot Hero” in some forgotten epic ballad. “Look at me!” Pipwick shouted, one leg kicking out as the daisy swayed dangerously. “I am the Raindrop Rider, champion of wet socks and lord of splashy chaos! Tremble, ye woodland creatures, for I bring NO TOWELS!” From the safety of her hollow log, a squirrel peeked out, rolled her eyes, and muttered, “Honestly, if I had a nut for every time that fool nearly drowned himself in drizzle, I’d own half this forest.” A family of mushrooms huddled together at the base of an oak, whispering nervously. “Do you think he’ll fall again?” asked one. “Last time he did, we smelled wet elf for weeks.” “If he falls,” grumbled a badger nearby, “I hope he falls into the river and floats downstream to plague some other woodland.” Pipwick, of course, ignored the critics. He was far too busy shrieking with delight as the daisy bent precariously under his weight. Every gust of wind sent him rocking back and forth like the world’s tiniest carnival ride. Every raindrop that smacked him in the face was met with triumphant giggles. He tilted his head back, opened his mouth, and began biting at the rain like he could chew the weather into submission. “Mmm, tastes like cloud juice!” he shouted to no one in particular. The storm intensified, lightning flashing briefly across the sky. Most creatures shivered or scampered for cover, but Pipwick only threw both arms into the air. “YES! STRIKE ME DOWN, O MIGHTY SKY! I DARE YOU! I’M TOO FABULOUS TO FRY!” Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered with a long, rumbling growl. The trees groaned. The daisies begged him quietly to get off. But Pipwick only clung tighter, grinning wide, his whole body vibrating with the thrill of the storm. If he had known what was about to happen, perhaps he would’ve hopped down, dried off, and behaved like a rational elf. But Pipwick was not rational. Pipwick was the Raindrop Rider. And his greatest adventure was only just beginning… Trouble Rides the Raindrops The storm raged harder, and Pipwick, naturally, got louder. That was his law: the wetter the weather, the bigger the performance. He clung to the daisy stem like a rodeo star and began narrating his own adventure as though the forest were an audience that had paid good coin to see him embarrass himself. “Behold!” he shouted over the crash of thunder. “I, Pipwick the Raindrop Rider, conqueror of drizzle, master of mud, kisser of questionable frogs, do hereby tame this wild flower beast in the name of…” He paused dramatically, trying to think of something important-sounding. “…in the name of… snacks!” Lightning split the sky. The squirrels all groaned in unison. Somewhere in the distance, a fox muttered, “Oh, saints preserve us, he’s monologuing again.” The daisy bent so far it was practically horizontal, and Pipwick whooped with delight. “Fly, my noble steed!” he cried, patting the stem. “Take me to glory! Take me to—OH BLOODY MOSS!” A particularly heavy raindrop, fat as a marble, smacked him right between the eyes. He flailed, slipped, and for one terrifying second, the entire forest got to enjoy the sight of a shrieking elf somersaulting through the air like a badly-thrown acorn. “NOT LIKE THIS! NOT IN BLUE!” he screamed. By sheer dumb luck—and possibly because the daisy pitied him—he landed back on the stem, legs wrapped around it, hair plastered to his forehead. He clutched the flower like it was a life raft and burst out laughing. “Ha! Did you see that? Perfect dismount! Ten out of ten! Judges, what say you?” A nearby crow cawed. To Pipwick, that absolutely meant, “Two out of ten.” “Rude!” Pipwick snapped back, flicking water at the crow. “Your nest looks like an unfluffed pillow, by the way!” The crow squawked indignantly and flapped off, leaving Pipwick alone with his daisy rollercoaster ride. The rain kept hammering down, washing mud into little rivers that streamed across the meadow. And that was when Pipwick’s eyes widened, and his grin turned dangerous. Mischief was about to happen. You could practically smell it, like burnt toast and bad decisions. “Ooooh,” he whispered to himself, glancing at the puddles forming below. “Rafting season.” Before the daisies could protest, Pipwick slid down the stem, landing with a splat in the mud. He staggered to his feet, his blue romper now so soaked it made squishy noises with every step. Undeterred, he began yanking leaves off nearby plants, shouting, “I REQUIRE VESSELS! The Raindrop Rider must RIDE!” “You can’t be serious,” muttered a fern. “I’m always serious when it involves speed and potential concussions!” Pipwick replied, gathering soggy petals and fashioning them into what could only generously be called a boat. It looked less like a seaworthy craft and more like something a toddler would build and then immediately regret. Nevertheless, Pipwick placed it in the rushing puddle, hopped aboard, and declared, “TO VICTORY!” The makeshift raft lurched forward. The puddle-stream carried him through the meadow, bouncing over pebbles and sticks like a drunk rollercoaster. Pipwick flung his arms wide, water spraying into his face, and screamed with joy, “YES! YES! WET SPEED IS THE BEST SPEED!” Forest creatures gathered along the banks to watch, because let’s be honest—entertainment was scarce, and Pipwick was basically free theatre. The squirrels placed bets on how many times he’d fall in. A hedgehog pulled out a quill and started keeping score. Even the badger, who claimed to be sick of Pipwick’s antics, muttered, “Well… I’ll give him this much. The boy’s committed.” The raft hit a rock, sending Pipwick flying several feet into the air. He landed face-first in the mud with a splat that echoed like a custard pie hitting a wall. He peeled his face out of the muck, spit out something that may have been a worm, and shouted triumphantly, “DID YOU SEE THAT LANDING?!” “You landed on your face,” a vole squeaked helpfully from the sidelines. “Exactly!” Pipwick grinned, mud dripping from his teeth. “I call that move ‘The Faceplant of Destiny!’” Back onto the raft he scrambled, laughing so hard he nearly fell off again. The stream carried him onward, twisting through the meadow like a miniature river of chaos. And with each new jolt, each new splash, Pipwick’s joy grew wilder. He wasn’t just riding rain anymore—he was waging war against dignity itself. And dignity was losing. The ride grew faster, the puddle-river widening as it carved a muddy channel through the grass. Pipwick’s raft began to spin. “LEFT! NO, RIGHT! NO, STRAIGHT! NO, AAAAHH!” he yelled, spinning so violently he resembled a very dizzy turnip. He clung to his soggy raft with one hand and shook a fist at the storm with the other. “IS THAT ALL YOU’VE GOT, SKY? I’VE HAD STRONGER SHOWERS FROM A DRIPPING LEAF!” The storm, apparently insulted, answered with a tremendous crack of thunder. The ground trembled. The puddle-river surged forward, carrying Pipwick straight toward a steep drop where the meadow sloped down into the forest proper. The crowd of creatures gasped in unison. “He’s not going to make it!” shrieked a rabbit. “He never makes it!” corrected a weasel. Pipwick, meanwhile, was cackling like a madman. His hair plastered to his forehead, his romper clinging like blue paint, he leaned into the storm and screamed, “BRING ME YOUR WORST! I AM THE RAINDROP RIDER! AND I AM—OH SWEET MOSS, THAT’S A DROP—” And then his raft went over the edge. The last thing anyone heard as he vanished into the depths of the forest below was his delighted shriek: “WHEEEEEEEE!” The Legend of the Soggy Fool Pipwick’s leafy raft plunged off the meadow’s edge, spinning violently as the rain-fed stream hurled him into the tangled undergrowth below. He shrieked like a kettle left on the fire, arms flailing, mouth wide open to catch raindrops like they were free samples at a market stall. For one glorious, terrifying moment, he was airborne—hair streaming back, eyes bugging with wild delight—before crashing into a new channel of water that carried him deeper into the forest. “WOOOOO! YES! THIS IS WHAT I WAS BORN FOR!” he bellowed, despite swallowing at least half a pint of mud-water. His raft disintegrated almost instantly, but Pipwick simply latched onto a passing log, legs dangling behind him as the torrent rushed forward. Above him, forest creatures lined the slope, following the chaos like spectators at a traveling circus. A chorus of squirrels scurried along the branches, narrating the disaster in squeaky unison. “He’s spinning left! No, right! No—oh, ooooh, face-first into the brambles! That’s going to sting later!” “Somebody should stop him,” sighed an owl, blinking solemnly from her perch. “He’s going to break his neck.” “Pfft,” replied a hedgehog. “That elf is too stupid to break. He’ll bounce.” The storm didn’t let up. Sheets of water sluiced down the canopy, turning every root and stone into a hazard. Pipwick, of course, treated each new obstacle as if it were part of an elaborate amusement park ride built for his own entertainment. A root snagged his log, sending him flying sideways into a patch of nettles. He emerged seconds later, red and itchy but beaming like a maniac. “YES! TEN MORE POINTS FOR STYLE!” The current spat him out into a larger clearing where the water had pooled into a broad, swirling basin. Here, his log began spinning lazily in circles. Pipwick, dizzy but determined, rose to his feet with arms flung wide. “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN OF THE FOREST! BEHOLD, THE RAINDROP RIDER IN HIS FINALE PERFORMANCE: THE DEATH-SPIN OF DOOM!” “More like the dizziness of doom,” muttered a vole from the sidelines, chewing on a wet leaf. “He’s gonna hurl.” Sure enough, Pipwick staggered, turned greenish, and leaned over to vomit spectacularly into the water. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, raised his arms again, and shouted, “IT’S PART OF THE SHOW! YOU PAID FOR THE WHOLE PERFORMANCE, DIDN’T YOU?!” The basin overflowed suddenly, sending the water rushing onward in a violent surge. Pipwick’s log shot forward, careening between trees and bouncing over rocks. He ducked under low branches, dodged snapping brambles, and once shouted, “OW! MY LEFT BUTTOCK IS SACRIFICED TO THE CAUSE!” after colliding with a sharp stick. But still, he grinned. Still, he cackled. Nothing—not mud, not bruises, not the strong likelihood of tetanus—could dull his joy. At one particularly sharp bend, his log tipped, and Pipwick was flung bodily into the current. He tumbled head over heels, somersaulting through frothing water until he finally managed to cling to an enormous toadstool growing on the bank. He hung there panting, mud streaming off his face, ears twitching wildly. And then, because Pipwick was Pipwick, he started laughing again. “I’M ALIVE! STILL WET! STILL FABULOUS!” The toadstool groaned. “Honestly, could you not?” But Pipwick was already hauling himself upright, wobbling on the mushroom like a circus performer. His romper sagged with water, squelching horribly. His hair stuck to his face like kelp. He smelled like damp moss, frog spit, and regret. And yet, he struck a pose like a victorious champion, fists on hips, chin raised dramatically. “Citizens of the forest!” he proclaimed, ignoring that most of said citizens were either laughing at him or hoping he’d finally drown. “This day shall be remembered as the day Pipwick the Raindrop Rider tamed the storm! The skies themselves tried to throw me down, but lo! I remain standing! Bruised! Moist! Possibly concussed! But victorious!” “You were screaming the whole way down,” pointed out a rabbit. “Screaming with joy!” Pipwick shot back. “And also mild terror! But mostly joy!” Thunder cracked again, and the rain continued to pelt down. Pipwick lifted his tiny fists and shouted, “You’ll never beat me, sky! I am your soggy nemesis! I am the rider of raindrops, the breaker of dignity, the champion of stupid ideas!” And with that, he slipped on the mushroom, tumbled into the mud face-first, and lay there giggling hysterically as worms slithered indignantly out of his hair. He didn’t even bother getting up. Why would he? He had lived his dream. He had taken a storm, wrestled it into absurdity, and turned it into a comedy act. He was Pipwick the Raindrop Rider, and he was exactly where he wanted to be: covered in mud, soaking wet, and cackling like an idiot while the whole forest watched in disbelief. Some called him a fool. Some called him a menace. But everyone, whether they admitted it or not, would be talking about the Raindrop Rider for seasons to come. And Pipwick? He’d be back on the daisies the next time the clouds gathered, ready to shriek, spin, fall, and laugh all over again. Because that’s what fools do. And sometimes, the world needs its fools just as much as it needs its heroes. Bring the Raindrop Rider Home If Pipwick’s soggy adventure made you laugh as hard as the forest critters did, you can carry his joy into your own world. “The Raindrop Rider” is available as a framed print to brighten your walls, or as a striking metal print for bold, modern decor. Share his mischievous grin with friends through a whimsical greeting card, or keep his playful spirit close in a spiral notebook for your own outrageous ideas. And for those who want Pipwick’s cheer wherever the sun shines, there’s even a beach towel—because nothing says summer fun like drying off with the forest’s most infamous wet fool.
