Spring

par Bill Tiepelman

Floral Mischief and Bearded Smiles

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

par Bill Tiepelman

The Quilted Egg Keeper

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

par Bill Tiepelman

La Grande Tapisserie de l'Aube de Pâques

Dans la vallée d'Aurelia, où la légende se mêlait aux fils de la réalité, il existait une prairie si vibrante qu'elle semblait être un morceau emprunté au paradis lui-même. Ici, la Grande Tapisserie du Printemps a déployé sa beauté, tissée non pas à partir de fils, mais à partir de l'essence même de la saison. Au cœur de ce tableau se trouvait un œuf d'une splendeur colossale, gravé des délicats entrelacs de la main de la nature, relique de la renaissance du printemps et de la promesse de Pâques. Chaque matin de Pâques, comme le veut la tradition, les habitants d'Aurelia se rassemblaient dans le pré, les yeux illuminés d'un émerveillement silencieux, le cœur battant au rythme de l'attente tranquille de la terre. Ils croyaient que cet œuf, orné des pastels les plus doux et d'une dentelle complexe de pétales et de feuilles, était le gardien des secrets du printemps, un récipient sacré rempli des joies d'un nouveau départ. Liora, désormais non seulement artiste, mais gardienne des traditions, avait hérité de sa grand-mère la tradition de l'œuf. Avec elle, elle portait un panier tressé avec le murmure du saule et doublé du duvet des premiers oisons de l'année. Il contenait des teintures fabriquées à partir des violettes écrasées de la dernière neige de l'hiver, de l'or des premières lueurs du soleil et du vert de la feuille printanière la plus fraîche. C'étaient les couleurs avec lesquelles les villageois peignaient des œufs plus petits, offrandes à la grandeur de l'aube de Pâques. Alors que les premières lumières de Pâques brisaient l’horizon, elles baignaient le Grand Œuf d’une lueur qui n’était ni celle du soleil ni de la lune mais quelque chose d’éthéré. Liora et les villageois ont observé les motifs de l'œuf tourbillonner, un kaléidoscope de rêves naître. On disait qu’observer ces schémas, c’était être témoin de la danse de la vie elle-même, une valse sans fin d’éclosions et de disparitions, de fins donnant naissance à des commencements. À chaque instant qui passait, la vallée semblait inspirer profondément, embrassant la chaleur, et à son expiration, la prairie s'épanouissait. De l’essence de l’œuf ont émergé des papillons, leurs ailes portant les mêmes motifs élaborés qui ornaient la coquille de l’œuf. Ils flottaient parmi la population, enchantant petits et grands, se faufilant entre œufs peints et rires. Il ne s’agissait pas d’une simple chasse pascale aux friandises ou aux jeux ; c'était une célébration de la tapisserie éternelle de la vie. Liora a peint, non pas sur toile cette fois, mais aux côtés des villageois sur des coquilles d'œufs, chacun un microcosme de la Grande Tapisserie, témoignage personnel de l'enchantement de la vallée. Et à mesure que le soleil montait plus haut, le Grand Oeuf scintillait d'une luminescence divine, un phare appelant l'esprit de Pâques - un moment de souvenir, de respect pour la vie et de joie partagée dans le cycle éternel du renouveau. L'histoire de "La Grande Tapisserie de l'Aube de Pâques" s'est ainsi allongée, son récit étant une douce rivière qui coulait à travers le cœur d'Aurelia, touchant chaque âme de ses eaux pures. Cela a rappelé à tous ceux qui l'ont entendu que Pâques n'était pas seulement un jour, mais une mosaïque vivante de moments, une célébration vibrante tissée dans le tissu même de la terre. Plongez dans la féérie de Pâques avec l'affiche La Grande Tapisserie du Printemps . Ce n'est pas simplement une affiche ; c'est une fenêtre sur la vallée d'Aurelia, où la légende de Pâques se dévoile dans des teintes vibrantes et des motifs complexes qui racontent le renouveau et la joie de la vie. Chaque trait, chaque couleur résume l'essence du Grand Oeuf, symbole d'unité et du cercle de vie qu'Aurelia célèbre. Parfaite pour décorer votre espace de vie ou comme cadeau de Pâques attentionné, cette affiche porte l'esprit de la danse communautaire, les rires des enfants à la chasse aux œufs et la beauté sereine de la prairie. Que ce soit un rappel des moments de joie partagés avec nos proches et de la beauté des traditions qui tissent la tapisserie de nos vies. A chaque regard, laissez l' affiche vous inviter au cœur de la fête, à danser dans le pré d'Aurelia, et à ressentir la chaleur du lever du soleil de Pâques. C'est plus que de l'art ; c'est une expérience, un morceau de l'âme de la vallée apporté dans votre maison. Emportez un morceau de la magie de Pâques partout où vous allez avec les autocollants La Grande Tapisserie du Printemps . Ces autocollants sont plus que de simples ornements ; ce sont des fragments du Grand Egg lui-même, chaque motif reflétant les motifs majestueux de l'œuf, imprégné de l'essence de la renaissance du printemps. Embellissez vos cahiers, ordinateurs portables et objets personnels avec ces autocollants pour apporter une touche de féerie d'Aurelia dans votre quotidien. Laissez chaque autocollant vous rappeler la prairie vibrante de la vallée, l'unité de la danse et le frisson de la découverte lors d'une chasse aux œufs de Pâques. C'est une façon de garder vivant l'esprit de renouveau et la joie des fêtes, toute l'année. Avec les stickers La Grande Tapisserie du Printemps , vous ne vous contentez pas de décorer un objet ; vous lui insufflez le savoir et la beauté d'une tradition séculaire qui célèbre la vie, la communauté et le cycle sans fin des commencements. Laissez ces autocollants être votre talisman personnel de joie et de créativité, une connexion petite mais puissante avec le monde merveilleux et plus vaste d'Aurelia.