woodland humor

par Bill Tiepelman

The Turquoise Troublemaker

Crimes of Leaf and Laughter There was a place, nestled deep in the forest’s golden curls, where the laws of logic melted faster than a caramel gnome in a hot spring. And at the center of that leaf-spackled lunacy lived a creature both loved and loathed by woodland society: The Turquoise Troublemaker. They never gave their real name. Some said it was unpronounceable. Others claimed it was legally redacted. But most just called them “Turq,” usually while groaning or scrubbing glitter out of unspeakable places. Turq was not your standard forest cryptid. No, this one had taste. Style. A mustard-yellow hoodie permanently zipped just below the horns, sneakers that had clearly been stolen from a tourist, and a smirk that promised both charm and chaos with equal intensity. They didn't walk through the woods so much as *swagger*, tail flicking behind them like punctuation to an ongoing roast session. On this particular fall morning, Turq was crouched on their usual log—the one that allegedly belonged to an ancient dryad who’d gotten tired of the drama and moved to coastal Italy. Surrounding them was a semi-circle of horrified, mildly confused, and fully bewitched woodland animals. Because Turq was teaching a workshop. “Today’s topic,” Turq announced, sipping something steamy from a chipped mug shaped like a screaming acorn, “is Advanced Pranking for Emotional Clarity and Power Reclamation. Or, in simpler terms, how to ruin someone’s day with style.” A squirrel raised its paw. “Is this therapy?” “Yes. But with less crying and more confetti.” Turq spun on their heel and slapped down a chart that read: ‘SARCASM AS A TOOL FOR COMMUNITY BUILDING’. Underneath were bullet points, all glittered, none legible. “Now,” Turq continued, “imagine your local bird is annoying. Chirping too loud. Smug about flight. What do you do?” A badger grunted. “Eat them?” “This isn’t medieval TikTok,” Turq snapped. “No eating. We prank. We humble. We redirect the vibe.” “You make everything sound like an Instagram caption,” muttered a hedgehog with trauma bangs. “That’s because I am an aesthetic,” Turq replied, fluffing their hoodie with flourish. “Anyway, last week I convinced Chadwick the human that moss was a currency. He gave me twenty bucks for a patch. I’m rich in both lichen and lies.” The crowd murmured. Chadwick, ever the over-curious nature blogger, had become the unofficial victim of Turq’s seasonal chaos. From “accidentally” swapping his eco-toothpaste with edible glitter, to replacing his trail mix with enchanted jumping beans, Turq considered Chadwick both their muse and their moral playground. “But today,” Turq whispered, crouching low with dramatic eyebrow arches, “we go bigger.” They unrolled a parchment so wide it bonked a possum in the face. On it was a sprawling map labeled: ‘OPERATION AUTUMNCLAP’. “We’re going to stage a full-blown fall festival pop-up and gaslight Chadwick into thinking it’s an ancient forest rite. We’ll wear leaf crowns. We’ll chant nonsense. We’ll sell him acorn ‘smoothies’ that are 70% bark.” “Why?” the hedgehog asked, halfway into a resigned sigh. “Because,” Turq said, eyes gleaming, “he put pumpkin spice in the forest stream. There are frogs hallucinating romance novels. Someone has to restore balance.” It was decided. Operation AutumnClap would commence at dusk. But just as Turq began instructing the squirrels on acorn smoothie ratios (less pulp, more crunch), a sound echoed from the trees. It was faint at first—like the groan of an overdramatic pine tree—but it grew louder. And deeper. Like thunder laced with attitude. “What in the photoshopped fungus was that?” Turq muttered. “That,” said the hedgehog, now clutching a leaf like a prayer flag, “is the Custodian.” The animals scattered like unpaid interns. Turq stood alone, clutching their mug like a sacred relic. “The Custodian? I thought that was just a myth. A tale invented by the elder chipmunks to make us compost properly.” But it wasn’t a myth. Because from between two great oaks, dragging a rake made from bone and bark, came a creature as tall as a sapling and twice as cranky. Draped in robes of rotting leaves, crowned with fungi, and radiating a very intense “I'm not mad, I'm disappointed” energy—The Custodian had returned. “Who disturbed the leaf order?” the Custodian boomed. Turq smiled. “Hi. That would be me. Turquoise. Mischief. Local menace and part-time emotional support cryptid. Do you need a hug, or…?” The Custodian growled. Turq winked. And then, quite suddenly, the ground split with a gust of compost-scented magic, launching both creature and cryptid into an accidental duel that would later be known (and wildly exaggerated) as: The Great Leaf Fight of Merribark Glen. The Great Leaf Fight of Merribark Glen The Custodian of Leaves was not built for nuance. It was built for rules. Sacred rakes. Standardized crunch levels. Color-coded leaf rot timelines. And here was Turq, the unofficial chaos mascot of Merribark, standing in defiance with a smirk, a hoodie, and what appeared to be a double-shot of pumpkin fog chai. “You have violated the Ordinance of Autumnal Order,” the Custodian thundered, pointing its rake like an accusation dipped in mold. “You danced on sacred mulch. You organized an unregistered seasonal gathering. And—worst of all—you scattered candy corn like cursed runes.” “Those weren’t runes,” Turq chirped. “They were forest snacks. And you’re welcome.” The Custodian narrowed its compost-crusted eyes. The forest held its breath. Somewhere, a squirrel dropped a nut in suspense. Then it happened. With a roar that shook pinecones off their branches, the Custodian summoned the full wrath of the forest bureaucracy. Forms flew. Vines twisted into red tape. Acorns arranged themselves into alphabetical grievance piles. A furious gust of enchanted leaflets exploded into the air, each stamped with angry oak sigils and the haunting phrase: “MANDATORY COMPOST COMPLIANCE.” “Oh no,” Turq whispered, ducking behind their log. “He’s going full Autumn Audit.” Animals scattered in every direction. Twiggy the hedgehog fake-fainted behind a fern. A raccoon tried to claim diplomatic immunity by wearing a monocle and yelling, “I’m Switzerland!” Turq, meanwhile, launched a counter-attack the only way they knew how—vibes-first. They struck a dramatic pose atop the log, hoodie billowing, sneakers glinting in the firefly glow, and shouted: “This is not anarchy! This is festivity with flair!” And with that, they hurled a bag of enchanted glitter directly into the Custodian’s face. It exploded in a shower of sparkle and defiance. The Custodian gasped as fuchsia powder coated its leaf-robes and the words “FALL VIBES ONLY” appeared across its chest in shimmering script. “You dare bedazzle me?” it bellowed. “You were asking for it,” Turq said, adjusting their horns like sunglasses. “You walk like an October tax return.” The ground shook again, but this time from below. From deep under Merribark, the mycelium networks flared to life—glowing with bioluminescent confusion. The Fungi Council had awakened. Griselda the Mushroom Queen emerged slowly from the moss, chewing a mushroom cigar and squinting through the forest mess. “What’s all this noisy bullshroom?” she rasped. “Leaf fascism,” Turq explained helpfully. “Ugh,” Griselda groaned. “Again? Didn’t we sort that out in the Great Rake-Off of ’04?” “Apparently not,” said Turq, dodging a flying leaf citation that whistled past their ear like bureaucratic death. Griselda squinted at the Custodian. “You. Twig brain. You woke me up for decorum violations?” The Custodian, puffed up and half-covered in glitter, tried to retort, but Griselda raised a gnarled finger. “Shut it. Everyone’s got sap in their socks these days. You know what the forest needs?” “A gnome boycott?” Turq guessed. “An equinox rave,” she said, grinning slowly. “We blast the spores. Burn the bylaws. Drink fermented leaf tea until the moss sings.” “That sounds… unregulated,” the Custodian said, visibly sweating compost. “Exactly,” said Griselda. “Sometimes nature needs chaos to breathe.” Turq high-fived her so hard a squirrel fell out of a tree. “I’m calling it: Fungtoberfest.” The forest crowd, emboldened by rebellion and fermented sap shots, rallied. Lights flickered. Mushrooms pulsed with rhythm. The raccoons formed a drumline. Chadwick, drawn by the scent of spectacle and forbidden cider, stumbled into the clearing with his camera already filming. “What… what is this?” he whispered, stunned. “It’s Merribark, darling,” Turq said, throwing an arm around him. “And this is what happens when you mess with seasonal aesthetics without consulting your local trickster.” As night swallowed the last of the golden sky, the forest transformed. What began as a duel ended in a wild, stomping, glitter-covered celebration of chaos, community, and the complete deconstruction of leafy hierarchy. The Custodian, reluctantly sipping leaf tea through a straw, even tapped its foot once. Maybe twice. And Turq? Turq stood on their log, hoodie flecked with dirt and pride, watching the chaos swirl with gleaming eyes. This was more than mischief. This was meaningful nonsense. This was forest magic, unfiltered and absurd. “To the troublemakers,” they toasted, raising their mug to the moon. “May we never be organized.” The moon winked back.     Need more mischief in your life? If *The Turquoise Troublemaker* made you cackle, conspire, or crave glitter warfare, why not invite a little Merribark mayhem into your home? From high-impact wall art to snuggly sass vessels, this vibrant troublemaker is now available in magically merchified formats—designed to delight woodland rebels and cozy chaos agents alike. Wood Print: Add a rustic, enchanted edge to your wall with a textured wood finish perfect for mischief-friendly décor. Framed Print: Polished, professional, and just smug enough to remind you who’s in charge—this troublemaker is gallery ready. Acrylic Print: Bold, glossy, and dripping with magical realism. Perfect for spaces that need a little more sass-per-inch. Tote Bag: Because every forest trickster needs a carry-all for snacks, glitter bombs, and emotional support acorns. Fleece Blanket: Soft, cozy, and just chaotic enough to keep you warm while plotting your next seasonal rebellion. Find the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com and let the sass spill into your space. Because rule-breaking looks great in high resolution.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Ember-Eyed Wanderer

Of Hoodies and Horns The forest of Merribark was not on any map, mostly because the cartographers who found it never made it out again—distracted by the intoxicating scent of maple-sugar moss and the unsolicited life advice given by the ferns. Some claimed the trees whispered gossip about local wildlife. Others said the squirrels held tiny séances and debated philosophy. But none of these eccentricities compared to the real enigma of Merribark: the ember-eyed creature in the hoodie. He had no name—or rather, he had so many that he simply shrugged when asked. The owls called him "Snugglehorn." The chipmunks used “The Fuzzy Prophet.” The humans, few and flustered as they were, referred to him only as "Oh My God What Is That—It’s So Cute—AAAAAH." He just went with “Wanderer,” which sounded mysterious and chic. Our Wanderer had the vibe of a creature that drank oat milk lattes, listened to forest lo-fi, and probably had an Etsy shop for enchanted pinecones. With plush white fur, oversized ears blushing with warmth, and twin antelope-like horns peeking through a shaggy mop of fluff, he was the kind of creature you'd want to cuddle, unless you disliked unsolicited sarcasm from woodland beings. Today, like many other days, he sat cross-legged on his favorite log wearing his mustard-toned hoodie—too big, slightly frayed, and enchanted to always smell like cinnamon rolls. Leaves drifted lazily down around him, performing aerial ballet. He watched them fall with an expression that suggested deep contemplation, though in truth, he was just wondering if it was too early for second breakfast. “You’re philosophizing again, aren’t you?” came a voice from the ferns, brittle and judgmental. It was Twiggy, a very sharp-tongued hedgehog with bangs and a dramatic sigh. She emerged with all the flair of a diva suffering a wardrobe malfunction, dragging a mini handbag made from acorn caps and sass. “Only about bread, darling,” said Wanderer, blinking his glowing eyes slowly. “Why do we bake it, slice it, and then toast it? Isn’t that emotional whiplash for the wheat?” “You need a hobby. Or a boyfriend,” Twiggy sniffed. “Or a therapist. Or all three. Probably in that order.” “You’re just upset because the mushroom you married turned out to be a toadstool in disguise.” “We do not speak of Reginald the Deceiver,” she hissed. “Besides, he was too spongy anyway.” Just then, a frantic bluebird dive-bombed through the clearing, panting in short, tweet-sized bursts. “HE’S COMING! THE TWO-LEGGED GIANT!” The entire forest paused mid-wind-blow. Leaves froze in midair. Even the judgmental ferns stiffened their fronds. Wanderer, meanwhile, adjusted his hoodie like a fashion influencer preparing for a live stream. “Oh yes, the one with the camera and the tragic man-bun,” he said. “Chadwick.” “He brings gluten,” whispered a squirrel reverently from the shadows. “He steps on fungi,” muttered a mushroom bitterly. Wanderer sighed, stood up, and brushed his tiny paws off on his hoodie. “Well, let’s not be rude. We’ll give him a proper Merribark welcome. Someone fetch the sarcasm wreath and the ‘You Tried’ banner.” By the time Chadwick stumbled into the clearing—half-mulched by brambles, holding his DSLR like it was an ancient relic—the forest scene had been curated to Pinterest-worthy perfection. Wanderer perched regally on his log, leaves spiraling behind him like nature’s confetti, eyes glowing like warm bourbon lit by fairy light. Chadwick gasped. “You’re… real.” Wanderer tilted his head. “Define ‘real.’ Existentially? Metaphysically? Or just tax-deductible?” Chadwick began clicking frantically. “This is going viral. I’m going to call you ‘Forest Catfox!’” “That’s offensive,” Twiggy growled from a branch. “He’s a Forest Dramaturge.” “I’m more of an Emotional Support Goblin,” Wanderer said with a shrug. “But I’ll let it slide for a croissant.” Chadwick, dazed and elated, kept snapping photos, unaware that the squirrels had already started rummaging through his backpack, assessing the value of his granola bars in acorn currency. And that’s when the whisper started, soft and eerie: a voice among the trees, unmistakably annoyed. It wasn’t Chadwick. It wasn’t Twiggy. And it definitely wasn’t one of the squirrels (though they could be dramatic). It was something older. Wilder. Grumpier. And mildly damp-smelling. The forest shivered. The leaves dropped like dead gossip. And Wanderer… Wanderer stood up straighter. Adjusted his hoodie. And whispered, “Oh fungus muffins. She’s awake.” The Slumbering Grump and the Granola Apocalypse The forest of Merribark was not accustomed to drama. Sure, there were the occasional turf disputes between badgers and raccoons (usually over who left peanut butter on the communal hammock). And yes, the annual “Mushroom Masquerade” sometimes ended with a few intoxicated toadstools face-down in the duck pond. But *this* was different. Because She had awakened. Deep beneath the glade, where roots knotted like secret handshakes and the earth hummed with unsent emails from Mother Nature, something ancient stirred: Grumple Griselda, the disgruntled fungus queen, was no longer dormant. She was awake, crusty, and she was hungry. “You didn’t tell me you lived over a spore mat,” Chadwick whispered, eyes wide behind his ironically large glasses. “Technically, I rent it. On a very flexible mycelium sublease,” Wanderer replied, cracking his knuckles like a woodland chiropractor. “But semantics aside—yes. We are standing on the grumpy fungal womb of doom. And you brought peanut butter trail mix. Excellent.” “That wasn’t me!” Chadwick hissed. “That was the influencer I dated last week! I’m more of a keto sunflower seed guy!” “Oh, you’re that guy,” Twiggy said, hopping down with a sniff. “The one who won’t shut up about gut biome and 'intermittent enlightenment.'” “Wanderer,” a voice rumbled from the soil itself. “Is that a human I smell?” “You smell that?” Wanderer muttered. “That’s ancient mold resentment mixed with existential dread and body lotion called ‘Forest Seduction.’” The ground trembled. From a slowly splitting mound of moss and dirt rose a towering column of sentient mushroom—hulking, multicolored, and wildly over-accessorized in damp velvet and beetle-shell jewelry. Griselda, Her Sponginess, emerged like an angry sourdough starter granted mobility. “YOU.” Her voice sloshed across the clearing like gravy rage. “You let another one in. Another two-leg. With hair gel!” “Chadwick, do not—do not—try to negotiate,” Wanderer warned. But Chadwick had already stepped forward, pulling out a bag of gluten-free trail mix like an offering to a snacky goddess. “It’s vegan?” Griselda blinked. Then blinked again. Then released a sound that could only be described as a mycological snort. “You think you can bribe me with roasted chickpeas? CHILD, I was fermenting before your ancestors even knew how to boil an egg!” “That’s true,” Twiggy piped up. “She’s older than regret.” “And just as clingy,” Wanderer added. “But she also really loves interpretive dance. Maybe we distract her.” “With dance?” Chadwick gasped. “With interpretive existential dread dance,” Twiggy clarified. “Big difference.” And so it began. In the center of the forest clearing, the most awkward flashmob in magical history unfolded. Squirrels somersaulted with nut-cluster precision. Frogs leapt in chaotic jazz sequences. Twiggy twirled like an angry pretzel, while Chadwick—bless his soft-shelled soul—attempted a combination of tai chi and a mid-2000s boy band routine. Wanderer, meanwhile, simply stood still, eyes glowing brighter than before, hoodie rippling in the wind like he was in an emotionally complicated shampoo commercial. Griselda narrowed her eyes. “What is this?” she demanded, swaying. “A ritual?” “A vibe,” Wanderer replied smoothly. “A forest reclaiming its narrative through kinetic vulnerability and granola-averse choreography.” Griselda paused. Blinked again. “...It’s working. My rage… it’s slowing…” “Careful,” Twiggy hissed. “She’s entering her sentimental fermentation phase.” “This is when she’s most dangerous,” Wanderer added. “If she starts quoting ancient mushroom poetry, we’re doomed.” “Let the moss beneath us bear witness,” Griselda began, her voice softening into a tragic, echoing croon, “to the cycle of growth and rot… for even the firmest fungi… must one day… split…” Chadwick burst into tears. “That’s so beautiful.” “He’s been emotionally compromised,” said a badger wearing monocles. “Time to engage Protocol Nutshake.” Before anyone could ask what that was, a chipmunk rocketed out of the underbrush riding a red squirrel bareback and wielding two pinecone maracas. The scene dissolved into joyful chaos as woodland creatures celebrated the near-aversion of disaster through interpretive art and accidental snack diplomacy. Griselda, touched by the bizarre communal ritual, slowly receded into her fungal dormancy. “Fine,” she grumbled. “You may keep your camera monkey. But I expect seasonal tributes. And at least one heartfelt ballad about the tragedy of mold.” “I’ll have Chadwick write an indie folk song,” Wanderer promised. “It’ll have banjo. And melancholy.” “Better have accordion,” Griselda muttered, sinking back into the dirt. “Or I will rise again…” By nightfall, the forest had returned to a semi-chaotic peace. The squirrels were tipsy on fermented berries. Chadwick had 347 blurry photos and one accidental selfie with Griselda. Twiggy had started selling tiny bottles of forest-scented oil labeled “Spores & Sass.” And Wanderer? He returned to his log, hoodie fluffed, sipping tea brewed from leaves that giggled when plucked. “So,” Twiggy asked, curling beside him. “Think he’ll come back?” “Probably,” Wanderer said with a sly smile. “Humans love mystery. And granola. And I am, if nothing else… extremely photogenic.” The stars blinked awake above Merribark, as soft laughter echoed through the trees and the forest whispered secrets to itself. And somewhere, far below, a mushroom queen dreamt of accordions. The End.     Bring the magic home: If “The Ember-Eyed Wanderer” stole your heart, whispered to your inner mischief, or made you cackle into your tea, you can now bring a piece of Merribark Forest into your world. From soft furnishings to gallery-worthy wall art, this enchanting scene is available in a variety of charming formats to suit every adventurer’s den. Tapestry: Perfect for creating a cozy reading nook or dreamy bedroom vibe, this fabric art brings the wanderer’s forest glow into any space. Canvas Print: Museum-quality texture with a rustic touch—ideal for showcasing this whimsical scene in your home gallery. Metal Print: Bold, luminous, and modern—this sleek print makes the glowing eyes and autumn tones pop with spellbinding clarity. Throw Pillow: Soft enough for squirrel naps and stylish enough for enchanted living rooms. Cozy up with forest flair! Fleece Blanket: Wrap yourself in woodland whimsy—ideal for chilly evenings, tea rituals, or pretending you're napping in a magical glade. Explore the full collection at shop.unfocussed.com and let the ember-eyed mischief-maker spark stories in your space.

par Bill Tiepelman

Trippy Gnomads

Shrooms, Shenanigans, and Soulmates Somewhere between the mossy roots of logic and the leafy canopy of “what the hell,” lived a pair of gnomes so groovy they made Woodstock look like a church bake sale. Their names were Bodhi and Lark, and they didn’t just live in the forest — they vibed with it. Every mushroom cap was a dance floor, every breeze a backing vocal, every squirrel a potential tambourine player in their daily jam session with existence. Bodhi had the beard of a wizard, the belly of a well-fed mystic, and the aura of someone who once tried to meditate inside a beehive “for the buzz.” He wore tie-dye like it was sacred armor and claimed he’d once levitated during a particularly potent batch of lavender tea (Lark said he just fell off the hammock and bounced). Lark, meanwhile, was a radiant chaos goddess in gnome form. Her hair changed color depending on the moon, the tea, or her mood. Her wardrobe was 80% flowy rainbow fabric, 15% bangles that jingled with intention, and 5% whatever she'd bedazzled while “channeling divine glitter.” She was the kind of woman who could make a peace sign look like a mic drop — and often did. The two of them weren’t just a couple — they were a cosmic alignment of snorts, incense, and undeniable soul-meld. They met decades ago at the annual Shroomstock Festival when Bodhi accidentally danced into Lark’s pop-up tea temple mid-spell. The resulting explosion of chamomile, glitter, and bass frequencies knocked both of them into a pile of enchanted moss... and love. Deep, sparkly, sometimes-kinda-illegal-in-some-realms love. Now, decades later, they’d made a cozy life in a hollowed-out toadstool mansion just off the main trail behind a portal disguised as an aggressively judgmental raccoon. They spent their days brewing questionable elixirs, hosting nude drum circles for squirrels, and writing poetry inspired by bark patterns and beetles. But something peculiar had stirred the peace of their technicolor utopia. It started subtly — mushrooms that glowed even when uninvited, birds chirping backwards, and their favorite talking fern suddenly developing a French accent. Bodhi, naturally, blamed Mercury retrograde. Lark suspected the cosmic equilibrium had hiccuped. The real cause? Neither of them knew — yet. But it was definitely about to turn their blissful forest frolic into an unexpected trip of the wildest kind. Cosmic Detours and Glorious Confusions Bodhi woke up to find his beard tied in knots around a mandolin. This wasn’t entirely unusual. What was unusual was the mandolin playing itself, softly humming something suspiciously close to “Stairway to Heaven” in gnomish minor. Lark was levitating six inches above her pillow with a satisfied grin, arms spread like she was doing trust falls with the universe. The air smelled like burnt cinnamon, ozone, and one of their questionable experiments in "emotional aromatherapy." Something was very not-normal in the glade. “Lark, babe,” Bodhi muttered, rubbing sleep from eyes that still glowed faintly from last night’s herbal inhalation, “did we finally crack open the veil between dimensions or did I lick that one too-happy mushroom again?” Lark floated down slowly, her hair swirling like galaxy tendrils. “Neither,” she said, yawning. “I think the forest’s having a midlife crisis. Either that or the earth spirit is trying to vibe-check us.” Before either could dive deeper into spiritual diagnostics, a series of thuds echoed through the glade. A line of mushrooms — fat, bioluminescent, and increasingly annoyed-looking — were marching toward their mushroom house. Not walking. Marching. One of them had a tiny protest sign that read, “WE ARE NOT CHAIRS.” Another had spray-painted itself with the words “FUNGUS ISN’T FREE.” “It’s the spores,” Lark said, eyes widening. “Remember the empathy tea blend we dumped last week because it turned our armpit hair into moss? I think it seeped into the root web. They’re woke now.” “You mean sentient?” “No. Woke. Like, unionizing and emotionally intelligent. Look — they’re forming a drum circle.” Sure enough, a ring of mushrooms had gathered, some tapping on stones with sticks, one chanting in rhythm, “We are more than footstools! We are more than footstools!” Bodhi looked around nervously. “Should we apologize?” “Absolutely not,” Lark said, already pulling out her ceremonial ukulele. “We collaborate.” And thus began the most psychedelic, passive-aggressive negotiation ceremony in woodland history. Lark led the chant. Bodhi rolled joints the size of acorns filled with apology herbs. The mushrooms demanded an annual celebration called Mycelium Appreciation Day and one day off per week from being sat on. Bodhi, overwhelmed by the sincerity of a portobello named Dennis, broke down crying and offered them full sentient citizenship under the Glade’s Common Law of Whoa Dude That’s Fair. As the moon rose and painted everything in a silvery hue, the newly formed G.A.M.E. (Gnomes And Mycelium Entente) signed their Peace Pledge on bark parchment, sealed with glitter and mushroom spore kisses. Bodhi and Lark fell back into their rainbow hammock, emotionally exhausted, and giddy from what might have been historical diplomacy or just a shared hallucination — it was hard to tell anymore. “Do you think we’re... like, actually good at this?” Bodhi asked, snuggling into her shoulder. “Diplomacy?” “No. Life. Loving. Floating with the weird and riding the vibe.” Lark looked up at the stars, one of which winked back at her in obvious approval. “I think we’re nailing it. Especially the part where we mess up just enough to keep learning.” “You’re my favorite mistake,” Bodhi said, kissing her forehead. “You’re my recurring fever dream.” And with that, they faded into sleep, surrounded by a softly snoring circle of sentient mushrooms, the forest finally at peace — for now. Because tomorrow, a sentient pinecone with a ukulele and political ambitions was scheduled to arrive. But that’s a trip for another tale.     Epilogue: Of Spores and Soulmates In the weeks that followed the Great Mushroom Awakening, the forest pulsed with an odd but joyful harmony. Animals began leaving handwritten notes (and mildly passive-aggressive Yelp reviews) on Bodhi and Lark’s door. The sentient fungi launched a twice-weekly improv troupe called “Spores of Thought.” The raccoon portal guardian began charging cover fees for dimension-hoppers, using the proceeds to fund interpretive dance classes for possums. Bodhi built a new meditation space shaped like a peace sign, only to have it claimed by the newly unionized chipmunks as a “creative grievance nest.” Lark started a ‘Gnomic Astrology’ podcast that became wildly popular with owls and rogue squirrels looking to “find their moon-beam alignment.” Life had never been more chaotic. Or more complete. And through it all, Bodhi and Lark danced. In the morning mist. Beneath moon-soaked leaves. On treetops. On tabletops. On mushrooms that now required enthusiastic consent and a signed waiver. They danced like gnomes who understood the world wasn’t meant to be perfect — just passionately weird, deliciously flawed, and infinitely alive. Love, after all, wasn’t about finishing each other’s sentences. It was about starting new ones. With laughter. With glitter. With the kind of kiss that smells faintly of rosemary and rebellion. And in the heart of the forest, where logic took long naps and joy wore bells on its toes, two trippy gnomads kept dancing. Forever just a little off-beat, and absolutely in tune.     Bring the Vibe Home If you felt the funk, the freedom, or maybe just fell a little in love with Lark and Bodhi’s kaleidoscopic chaos, you can invite their spirit into your space. Wrap yourself in the magic with a super-soft fleece blanket that practically hums peace signs. Let the art take over your walls with a forest-sized tapestry or a vibrant canvas print that turns any room into a glade of good vibes. And for those who still believe in snail mail and soul notes, there’s even a greeting card ready to deliver whimsy with a wink. Celebrate weird love. Honor magical mayhem. Support the unionized mushrooms. And most of all, stay trippy, friend.

par Bill Tiepelman

Squirrely Monroe

The Rise of a Forest Icon Long before the world knew her as Squirrely Monroe, she was just another bushy-tailed dreamer from the oak-lined backstreets of Central Park. Born in a hollowed-out tree with bad insulation and worse neighbors (woodpeckers, of course), little Norma Nutbaker had one dream — to be seen. Other squirrels were content chasing acorns and dodging cyclists. But not her. Not Norma. She practiced strutting along fallen branches like a catwalk. She nibbled seductively on pinecones. She whispered her famous line into the wind every night: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." The City That Never Sleeps (Because of Raccoons) By the time she was two (about 20 in squirrel years), she hit the underground scene — quite literally. The storm drain scene. Central Park's secret nightlife thrived beneath the grates. There were jazz mice. Dancing possums. And if you were lucky? You might catch a glimpse of Norma's famous tail swirl — the twirl that would later grace murals on tree trunks everywhere. But fame has a way of finding those who shine hardest. One breezy autumn afternoon, while foraging near 5th Avenue, she stumbled upon the moment that would define her forever... The Breeze Heard 'Round the Park She stood above a subway grate. It hummed below her like the purr of a big city engine. And then — whooooooosh — the wind caught her simple little leaf-sewn dress, sending it billowing skyward in a scandalous flurry of forest fashion. A passing pigeon paparazzi captured the moment. Within hours, she wasn’t Norma Nutbaker anymore. She Was Squirrely Monroe. Forest creatures whispered about it over mushroom cappuccinos. Raccoons tried to imitate it (poorly). And chipmunks... well, they blushed just thinking about it. But fame is never just fun and acorns, darling. Behind the glamour... was a squirrel still searching for something more. Fame, Fur, and Forbidden Nuts The High Life in the Tall Trees Overnight, Squirrely Monroe became the name whispered across the treetops. She graced the covers of every leaf-laminated magazine from Acorn Vogue to Squirrel Illustrated. Her signature look? Soft platinum fur curls (styled with dew from rare morning grass) and that windswept leaf dress — now sold in boutique burrows at frankly scandalous markups. But forest fame came at a cost. Every twig-snapping paparazzi raccoon wanted a piece of her. Even worse? Her love life became headline fodder. Enter: Reynard Fox — The Scandal of the Season Reynard was trouble. A red-furred indie actor from the West Woods. Known for his smoldering eyes, questionable poetry, and tragic allergy to beechnuts. The tabloids went wild: "SQUIRRELY FALLS FOR BAD BOY FOX — WILL IT LAST?" It didn’t. Reynard was seen one night slipping into The Burrow Room — an exclusive underground club for forest elite — with a rival socialite: Trixie Chipmint, heiress to the Minted Nut fortune. Squirrely was devastated. Heartbroken. The forest stood still. The Comeback of a Lifetime But if the world thought Squirrely Monroe would vanish quietly into the hollow... they didn’t know her at all. She retreated deep into Central Park — to a forgotten maple grove where the wind blew wild and free. There, she crafted her masterpiece performance: a one-squirrel stage show titled "Nutting Like A Woman" — a raw, funny, painfully honest story of love, fame, and survival in a world that only saw the tail, not the heart. The premiere? Legendary. Critics declared it: "A triumph of fur, fashion, and vulnerability." Her Final Bow (For Now) Today, Squirrely Monroe lives a quieter life — at least by squirrel standards. She hosts late-night fireside interviews for Nutflix, mentors young chipmunk actresses, and occasionally reenacts the pose — leaf dress swirling — for charity fundraisers benefiting displaced urban wildlife. But if you wander Central Park late at night... and listen carefully beneath the hum of the city’s heartbeat... You might just hear her famous line float through the trees: "Some like it rough... but I like it nutty." And somewhere, a squirrel dreams of being seen — just like she once did.     Epilogue: The Wind Still Remembers Her Years have passed. The city grows louder. The trees thinner. The grates rust over with time and footsteps forgotten. But not her. Every once in a while — on a warm summer night when the subway hums beneath the streets and the breeze rises just right — there’s a rustle above Central Park’s oldest grate. Some say it’s the wind. Some say it’s legend. But those who know? They pause. They smile. And they whisper to the night air: "Goodnight, Squirrely Monroe." Because icons never really leave us. They just become part of the stories we tell... when the wind feels just a little more glamorous.     Bring a Little Squirrely Monroe Home Love a little glam with your wild side? Take a piece of forest fame home with you. The iconic moment that made Squirrely Monroe a legend is now available as stunning wall art, cheeky accessories, and collector-worthy keepsakes. Canvas Prints — Bold, beautiful, and ready to steal the spotlight on your wall. Framed Prints — Classy enough for the burrow or the boardroom. Tote Bags — For carrying nuts, secrets, or just a whole lot of style. Stickers — Tiny, sassy, and ready to adorn your world one acorn at a time. Because glamour never really goes out of style — it just grows fluffier.

par Bill Tiepelman

Hérisson enchanté en fleurs

Au cœur de la partie la plus profonde et la plus secrète de la forêt, là où la lumière du soleil ne chatouille le sol que dans les meilleurs moments, vivait un hérisson nommé Bramble. Bramble était un petit bonhomme timide avec un nez qui frémissait toujours comme s'il avait son propre esprit et des piquants qui étaient généralement froissés à cause de son habitude de faire la sieste dans des endroits bizarres. La plupart du temps, Bramble menait une vie humble. Ses principales préoccupations étaient d'éviter les écureuils trop affectueux et de décider quel tas de feuilles ferait le lit le plus confortable pour sa prochaine sieste. Mais un beau matin, Bramble se réveilla et découvrit que son monde était plutôt... différent . Le mot « différent » n’est pas particulièrement apprécié des hérissons. « Différent » peut signifier n’importe quoi, d’une pluie inattendue à un renard qui a un faible pour les en-cas. Mais lorsque Bramble a ouvert les yeux, il n’a pas été accueilli par une pluie ou un renard. Au lieu de cela, il a été accueilli par une paire d’ailes de papillon qui poussaient dans son dos dans une magnifique palette de couleurs. Bleu sarcelle, rose, or et violet, elles scintillaient et brillaient, captant la lumière du soleil d’une manière qui faisait cligner des yeux et plisser les yeux de Bramble. « Eh bien, c'est… étrange », marmonna-t-il pour lui-même, se retournant pour regarder ses nouveaux ajouts. À sa grande surprise, les ailes se mirent à bouger lorsqu'il pensa à les déplacer. Un petit battement par-ci, un petit battement par-là. Il essaya quelques battements hésitants, planant à environ un millimètre du sol avant d'atterrir en tas maladroit. À proximité, une famille d'escargots l'observait avec le genre de jugement que seuls les escargots peuvent transmettre. « Qu'est-ce que tu regardes ? » marmonna Bramble en se redressant et en se redressant un peu. Les conseils du vieux chêne sage Après une heure de pratique environ, Bramble décida qu'il avait besoin de conseils. Il se rendit au pied du vieux chêne sage, connu pour donner d'excellents conseils (bien que quelque peu énigmatiques) sur toutes sortes de sujets inhabituels. « Oh, Wise Oak ! » s'écria Bramble en levant les yeux vers les branches qui s'étalaient. « Il semblerait que j'aie… euh… acquis des ailes. » Le vieux chêne sage émit un petit rire. « Des ailes ? Eh bien, c'est un spectacle rare pour un hérisson ! La plupart des hérissons de votre espèce se contentent de quatre pattes et d'un pelage hérissé. Dis-moi, que désires-tu, jeune ronce ? » Bramble réfléchit longuement. « Je… je crois que j'aimerais être une fée », dit-il finalement, se sentant un peu bête. L'écorce du vieux chêne sage craqua tandis qu'il réfléchissait. « Une fée, dis-tu ? Il te faudra plus que des ailes, Bramble. Tu devras apprendre les manières du peuple des fées : comment virevolter au clair de lune, danser dans des cercles de champignons et, bien sûr, exaucer des vœux. » « Exaucer des vœux ? » demanda Bramble, intrigué. « Comme un… un hérisson magique ? » « Exactement », répondit le Chêne Sage avec un clin d’œil. « La prochaine créature que tu rencontreras, exauce son désir. C’est ainsi que tu commenceras. » Les épreuves d'une nouvelle fée Bramble s'est frayé un chemin dans la forêt avec un léger battement d'ailes, impatient de tenter de réaliser ses vœux. Il n'a pas tardé à rencontrer un lapin plutôt débraillé qui semblait avoir connu des jours meilleurs. Le lapin mâchait un morceau de laitue fanée et avait l'air vraiment misérable. « Bonjour, monsieur Lapin ! » gazouilla Bramble, essayant d'avoir l'air aussi officiel qu'il imaginait qu'une fée le serait. « Je suis Bramble, la première fée hérisson de la forêt. Voulez-vous un vœu ? » Le lapin le regarda de haut en bas, interrompant sa mastication. « Un vœu, hein ? D'accord, je vais mordre. Je souhaite… une montagne de laitue la plus fraîche et la plus croquante du pays. » Bramble se concentra intensément. Il ferma les yeux, ses ailes bourdonnant alors qu'il se concentrait sur l'exaucement du vœu. Lorsqu'il ouvrit les yeux, il fut quelque peu déçu de voir que le lapin grignotait toujours la même laitue triste et fanée. « Hmm, » dit Bramble en se grattant la tête. « Peut-être qu’il a besoin d’un peu plus de… style. » Il agita ses ailes plus fort, fit un petit tour et dit de sa meilleure voix de fée : « Abracadabra ! » Soudain, le sol commença à trembler, et juste devant les yeux étonnés du lapin, un énorme tas de laitue apparut, verte et croquante et sentant légèrement la rosée du matin. « C'est... c'est vraiment incroyable », murmura le lapin, les yeux écarquillés. « Amusez-vous bien ! » dit Bramble, plutôt content de lui. Il reprit son envol, comme s'il avait compris le truc des fées. Une rencontre fatidique avec le renard des forêts Alors qu'il volait, Bramble se sentait tout à fait inarrêtable, jusqu'à ce qu'il entre presque en collision avec le renard de la forêt, qui se prélassait sous un arbre avec un sourire narquois. « Eh bien, eh bien, dit le renard en regardant Bramble. Un hérisson volant ? Et une fée en plus. Et ensuite, un écureuil avec un doctorat ? » Bramble gonfla la poitrine, ignorant le sarcasme. « Vous voulez exaucer un vœu, M. Fox ? » Le renard rit. « Un vœu ? Oh, j'en prends un, d'accord. Je souhaite... hmm... une ruse éternelle. » Bramble, pris de confiance en lui, commença à battre des ailes et à chanter à nouveau son incantation de fée, mais s'arrêta un instant. « Attends. La ruse éternelle n'est-elle pas... simplement celle d'un renard ? » Le renard cligna des yeux, l'air un peu déconcerté. « Eh bien… oui. Mais ça ne veut pas dire que je n'en veux pas plus . » « Je ne pense pas que ça marche comme ça », dit Bramble en se grattant le menton pensivement. « Tu devras peut-être te contenter d'être la deuxième créature la plus rusée, après la fée hérisson. » Le renard renifla et s'éloigna en trottant, marmonnant quelque chose à propos de « fées débutantes ». La danse des fées de la forêt Alors que le soleil disparaissait à l’horizon, les ailes de Bramble commencèrent à briller doucement dans la pénombre. D’autres créatures de la forêt se rassemblèrent pour l’observer tournoyer et voleter, exécutant sa première « danse des fées » officielle dans un petit cercle de champignons qui brillaient faiblement sous ses pieds. Les écureuils applaudirent. Les escargots, toujours sceptiques, hochèrent lentement la tête en signe d’approbation. Même le renard regardait depuis l’ombre, faisant semblant de ne pas s’en soucier. Et là, sous le regard vigilant du vieux chêne sage, Bramble le hérisson réalisa qu'il avait trouvé sa véritable vocation - non seulement en tant que fée, mais en tant que petit morceau de magie qui apportait rire et émerveillement à la forêt, un souhait à la fois. Alors qu'il s'installait pour dormir, ses ailes délicatement repliées sur son dos, Bramble soupira joyeusement, rêvant de toutes les aventures à venir dans sa nouvelle vie de seule fée hérisson de la forêt. Ramenez la magie à la maison Si vous êtes tombé amoureux de Bramble et de ses aventures fantaisistes dans la forêt, vous pouvez apporter un peu de sa magie dans votre propre vie avec ces délicieux produits de notre collection : Tapisserie : Transformez votre espace avec une superbe tapisserie du monde enchanteur de Bramble, parfaite pour toute pièce qui a besoin d'une touche de fantaisie. Impression sur bois : ajoutez un charme rustique à votre décor avec une impression sur bois qui capture chaque détail des ailes colorées de Bramble et de son environnement forestier. Puzzle : Amusez-vous pendant des heures à assembler le portrait magique de Bramble avec un puzzle aussi agréable à construire qu'à exposer. Sac fourre-tout : Emportez un petit morceau de l'enchantement de Bramble avec vous partout où vous allez avec un charmant sac fourre-tout, parfait pour toutes vos aventures quotidiennes. Chaque pièce apporte l'esprit et la magie de Bramble dans votre maison, un rappel qu'un peu de fantaisie peut rendre n'importe quelle journée plus lumineuse. Explorez la collection complète et trouvez le moyen idéal de célébrer la magie du hérisson féerique le plus apprécié de la forêt.