par Bill Tiepelman
Gobsmacked in the Glade
The Lily Pad Incident At precisely “oh no o’clock,” a rainbow-haired goblin named Peeb discovered that lily pads are terrible chairs and even worse life choices. He’d crouched on one like a suspicious frog, hands pressed to his cheeks, and released a whispery “oooo” that traveled across the enchanted pond like a gossip column with webbed feet. Peeb wasn’t built for stealth. His hair was a gossip of color—cobalt, tangerine, electric moss—standing out like a neon sign that screamed TRY ME. His ears, the architectural wonder of the glade, collected every sound: the tilt-tock of water beetles, the distant honk of an aggrieved swan, and, more importantly, the crunch of someone stepping on a twig that did not sign up for this. “Show yourself,” Peeb stage-whispered, which for him meant “please announce your plot twist.” A ripple rolled past his toes. The lily pad burped. He adjusted his existential squat. “If this is a dramatic entrance, you’re late and I’m judging.” From the cattails emerged a figure in travel-stained leathers: a human woman with a map shoved into her belt and the facial expression of someone who’d headbutted destiny and won on points. She carried a backpack the size of a small moon and the attitude of an unpaid invoice. “You must be the Guide,” she said. “Guide? I am an Experience,” Peeb said, flicking hair like a discount thunderstorm. “Also, hello. I charge by the gasp, and you’re already two in.” “Name’s Renn,” she said. “Here for a job. Need a goblin who knows the shortcuts through the Glarewood, preferably one who won’t eat my boots.” Peeb held up both hands. “I only nibble ethically sourced footwear.” His eyes narrowed, tracking a dragonfly practicing irresponsible aerobatics. “But the Glarewood? That place stares back. Why go?” Renn unsheathed a rolled parchment. It glinted—literally glinted—like a guilty conscience. “Treasure map. Also a curse. Long story. Think ‘family drama meets hostile cartography.’ I was told the goblin with the loud hair and louder opinions could get me through.” Peeb perked. Treasure was his love language, followed closely by snacks and malicious compliance. “I have routes,” he said. “Secret ones. One involves a polite troll. Another requires emotionally negotiating with a bridge.” Behind them, the pond plopped. Something large exhaled bubbles the size of soup bowls. A golden water lily tilted, showering them in sparkles that were frankly showing off. The air smelled of wet coins and wishful thinking. “Fine,” Renn said. “Terms?” “One: I pick snacks. Two: If we encounter any prophecies, we ignore them out of spite. Three: You don’t ask what’s in my pocket.” “Counter-offer: I pick the route. You don’t steal my map. And if something with teeth smiles at me, you explain that’s just their face.” They shook on it. The pond hiccuped again, and Peeb’s lily pad sank an inch. “Right,” he said brightly, “time to go before my seat becomes a metaphor.” They made it as far as the reeds when the water boomed. A shadow rolled up from the pond’s belly like a thought nobody wanted to admit having. Two bulbous eyes surfaced, each the size of a teacup saucer. A mouth followed, wide enough to register its own postal code. “Friend of yours?” Renn asked, already drawing a knife that did not look ceremonial. Peeb squared his shoulders. “That,” he said, “is Bubbles the Approximately Gentle. He’s usually friendly as long as you don’t—” Bubbles snapped up the sinking lily pad with a single slurp and burped out a crown of pondweed. “—insult his décor,” Peeb finished weakly. The giant amphibian blinked. Then, in a voice like wet drums, it spoke: “Toll.” Renn glanced at Peeb. Peeb glanced at fate. Somewhere, a prophecy tried to stand up and tripped over its robes. “All right,” Peeb sighed, fishing in his pocket. “Let’s pay the frog and pray it’s not with our dignity.” The Toll of Bubbles and Other Unpaid Debts Peeb’s hand emerged from his pocket with an assortment of glittering nonsense: two bent copper buttons, a marble that faintly hummed with regret, and a coin bearing the face of someone who looked suspiciously like Peeb doing his best impression of royalty. “That’s your currency?” Renn asked, eyebrow performing interpretive skepticism. “Of course not,” Peeb said indignantly. “That’s my emergency charm collection. You can’t just pay a frog king with anything. There are rules. Amphibious etiquette is sacred.” He turned to Bubbles, who had begun drumming his webbed fingers on the pond’s surface, creating small tidal waves that gently insulted physics. “O Mighty Lord of Moist Surfaces,” Peeb began in an overly theatrical voice, “we humbly seek passage across your most glistening domain. In return, we offer tribute most shiny and irrelevant!” Renn whispered, “You sound like a con artist in a poetry contest.” Peeb whispered back, “Thank you.” From his satchel, the goblin produced a single item of magnificence: a polished spoon with an engraving of a duck doing yoga. He held it aloft. The world seemed to pause for a moment, confused but intrigued. Bubbles’ massive eyes blinked. “Acceptable.” The frog’s tongue—longer than necessary by several legal definitions—snapped out and took the spoon. He swallowed it in one heroic gulp, then leaned in close enough that Peeb could see his reflection trembling in an ocean of amphibian disinterest. “Go,” the frog rumbled. “Before I remember my dietary restrictions.” They didn’t wait for a second invitation. The reeds gave way to damp earth and a winding trail that glowed faintly underfoot, like moonlight had decided to join the conspiracy. Trees here grew in eccentric shapes—one looked like it was trying to hug itself, another had grown a perfect window through its trunk, framing a sliver of sky that looked suspiciously judgmental. Renn’s boots squelched rhythmically, the sound of someone too practical to be impressed by whimsy. “So what’s the deal with the Glarewood?” she asked. “Why’s everyone so afraid of it?” “Oh, the usual,” Peeb said, skipping over a root that was clearly plotting something. “Haunted trees, cursed air, sentient moss that critiques your posture. It’s a place that feeds on overconfidence and snacks on poor decisions. You’ll love it.” “Sounds like my last relationship,” Renn muttered. They walked in uneasy silence until the ground began to shimmer with a subtle blue sheen. Ahead, the trees leaned closer, forming an archway of twisted branches that seemed to breathe. The air shimmered with lazy motes of light, floating like tiny glowing lies. “That’s it,” Peeb said, suddenly serious. “The border. Once we cross, there’s no turning back without paperwork, and trust me—you do not want to deal with the bureaucratic dryads.” “Can’t be worse than the Department of Magical Licensing,” Renn said dryly. “Oh, it’s worse,” Peeb said. “They charge emotional tolls.” Renn stepped through first. For a heartbeat, she vanished—then reappeared on the other side, slightly blurry, like reality hadn’t finished loading her. Peeb followed, holding his breath, and the world changed in a blink. The Glarewood was alive in a way normal forests weren’t. Colors moved. Shadows gossiped. The trees bent closer to listen to secrets they weren’t supposed to hear. The air was heavy with perfume and potential bad ideas. “Okay,” Renn said, pulling out the map. “We head north until the path forks. One route leads to the Cackling Brook, the other to the Weeping Hill. We want the one that’s less emotionally unstable.” Peeb squinted at the parchment. “It’s moving.” Indeed, the ink shimmered and rearranged itself like it was trying out new fonts. Words twisted, forming a sentence that hadn’t been there before: ‘You’re being followed.’ Renn folded the map very slowly. “That’s comforting.” Behind them came a faint jingling—like tiny bells being carried by the wind. Then laughter. Soft, overlapping, too cheerful to be friendly. “Pixies,” Peeb hissed. “Don’t make eye contact. Don’t make eye anything. They weaponize attention.” “What happens if we ignore them?” Renn asked. “They’ll feel neglected and emotionally spiral until they turn into wasps. Or they’ll braid our eyebrows. Fifty-fifty.” Unfortunately, the pixies had already noticed them. A dozen of them swirled out of the trees—tiny, glittering beings with wings that sounded like gossip. Their leader, wearing a thimble crown, landed on Peeb’s nose. “You’re in our glen,” she said in a voice that could curdle honey. “Pay toll or perform dance.” Peeb sighed. “I just paid a toll. I’m starting to feel financially targeted.” “Dance,” the pixie insisted, poking him with a twig-sized spear. “Funny dance. With feelings.” Renn grinned. “Oh, I have to see this.” Peeb rolled his eyes so hard they nearly relocated. “Fine,” he said, hopping onto a nearby log. “Prepare yourselves for interpretive goblin jazz.” What followed could not legally be described as dancing. It was more like an argument between gravity and self-respect. Peeb flailed, spun, and occasionally made finger-gun gestures at invisible haters. The pixies were delighted. Renn laughed so hard she nearly dropped her knife. Even the trees seemed to lean closer in horrified fascination. When Peeb finished, panting and triumphant, the pixie queen clapped. “Adequate,” she declared. “You may pass. Also, your aura needs moisturizer.” “I’ll put that in my next therapy session,” Peeb muttered. The pixies vanished as suddenly as they’d appeared, leaving behind a faint smell of mischief and sparkles that clung like regrets. Renn wiped her eyes. “You’re surprisingly good at humiliation.” “It’s a survival skill,” Peeb said. “Also my cardio.” They pressed on, following the twisting glow of the trail deeper into the Glarewood. The trees grew taller, the air thicker. Somewhere ahead, faint music played—slow, mournful, and unsettlingly seductive. It tugged at the edges of reason. Renn frowned. “You hear that?” Peeb nodded, ears twitching. “Sirens. Wood version. Probably trying to lure us into an emotional flashback.” “Charming.” Renn drew her knife again. “Lead the way, Experience.” Peeb bowed dramatically. “After you, Customer Satisfaction Guarantee.” Together, they stepped into the clearing where the music pulsed like a heartbeat. In the center stood a crystal pool, and in it—something moved. It wasn’t a creature so much as an idea pretending to have a body: long, fluid, beautiful in a slightly threatening way. Its eyes glowed like bottled daydreams. “Welcome,” it purred. “You’ve come far. Trade me your fears, and I’ll show you the treasure you seek.” Peeb blinked. “Hard pass. My fears are artisanal and locally sourced.” Renn, however, stepped closer. “What if she’s telling the truth?” “Oh, she probably is,” Peeb said. “That’s the scary part. Truth here always has small print.” The creature smiled wider, too wide. “All treasures require a price,” it said softly. “For some, it’s gold. For others…” Its gaze slid over to Peeb. “Humor.” “No,” Peeb said instantly. “Absolutely not. You can pry my jokes from my cold, giggling corpse.” “Then perhaps…” it turned to Renn, “your name.” Renn’s grip tightened on the knife. “You’ll have to earn it.” The pool rippled. The air thickened. The Glarewood seemed to hold its breath. Peeb groaned, already regretting his entire résumé. “Every time I agree to help someone,” he muttered, “we end up negotiating with metaphors.” He reached for his pocket, where something faintly sparkled—the same pocket he’d refused to discuss earlier. Renn noticed. “What are you hiding in there?” Peeb grinned. “Plan B.” He pulled out a tiny glass orb swirling with rainbow mist. “If this doesn’t work,” he said, “run.” He hurled it into the pool. The orb burst in a cloud of colors, releasing a sound halfway between a laugh and an explosion. When the smoke cleared, the creature was gone. The pool shimmered gold for a moment, then faded into silence. Peeb blinked at the empty water. “Huh. That actually worked. I was 80% sure that was just a glitter bomb.” Renn lowered her knife slowly. “You’re a menace.” “And yet,” Peeb said, dusting off his tunic, “an effective one.” From the pool’s center rose a small pedestal. On it lay a glowing gemstone, shaped like a tear and pulsing softly with light. The treasure they’d been seeking. Renn stepped forward. “Finally.” Peeb, however, didn’t move. His expression was uncharacteristically serious. “Be careful,” he said. “The Glarewood doesn’t give gifts. It loans them—with interest.” Renn hesitated, then reached out—and the forest itself seemed to exhale. The Gem, The Goblin, and the Gigglepocalypse Renn’s fingers brushed the gemstone, and instantly the world hiccupped. Colors inverted. Trees gasped. Somewhere, a mushroom screamed in lowercase italics. The Glarewood came alive like a theater audience realizing the play had gone off-script. “Well,” Peeb said, blinking through the sudden kaleidoscope of nonsense, “that’s new.” The glowing tear pulsed once, twice—then melted into a puddle of shimmering light that slithered up Renn’s arm like affectionate mercury. She swore, trying to shake it off, but it climbed higher, wrapping her wrist in luminous threads. “Peeb! Fix this!” “Define ‘fix,’” Peeb said cautiously. “Because my last attempt at fixing something gave a raccoon the power of foresight, and now he keeps mailing me spoilers.” Renn glared at him with the intensity of a thousand unpaid invoices. “Do. Something.” The goblin squinted at the light now coiling up her arm like sentient jewelry. “Okay, okay! Maybe it’s not evil. Maybe it’s just aggressively friendly.” “It’s humming the same tune from the pool!” Renn snapped. “That’s never good news!” The humming grew louder. The gemstone’s light flared—and in an instant, the clearing was filled with a burst of magic that tasted like laughter and poor decisions. The trees bent back. The air rippled. And from the puddle of melted gemstone rose a figure… small, winged, and painfully familiar. “Oh no,” Peeb groaned. “Not her.” The figure yawned, stretched, and fixed them both with a smirk. “Miss me?” It was the pixie queen. Same thimble crown. Same weaponized smugness. “Thanks for the lift. You broke my prison, darlings.” “We what now?” Renn asked. “My essence was sealed in that gem ages ago,” the queen said, inspecting her nails. “Something about excessive mischief and minor war crimes. But now I’m free! Which means—” She spread her arms dramatically. “Party time!” With a flick of her wrist, glitter detonated across the clearing. Every tree started humming in harmony. Flowers burst into applause. Bubbles—the giant frog—rose from a nearby swamp puddle wearing a crown of disco lights and began to dance with terrifying grace. “Oh stars,” Peeb muttered, ducking as a confetti tornado spun past him. “She’s triggered the Gigglepocalypse.” “The what?” Renn demanded, wiping glitter off her face. “A magical chain reaction of uncontrollable laughter,” Peeb shouted over the chaos. “It feeds on irony and spreads faster than gossip in a tavern!” Sure enough, Renn felt a snort bubble up her throat. Then a giggle. Then a full, uncontrollable laugh that bent her double. “Stop—can’t—breathe—why—is—it—funny!” “Because,” Peeb gasped, barely holding back his own fit, “this—forest—runs on punchlines!” The pixie queen twirled midair, laughing like a caffeinated thunderstorm. “Let joy reign!” she cried. “Also mild chaos!” Peeb fumbled through his pockets, tossing out increasingly useless trinkets: a singing walnut, a broken compass that pointed toward guilt, and a half-eaten biscuit that might’ve been sentient. Nothing helped. Then he remembered the marble—the one that hummed with regret. He held it up, eyes wide. “This! This might balance the magic!” “How?” Renn choked out, tears of laughter streaming down her face. “Regret cancels joy! It’s basic emotional algebra!” Peeb hurled the marble into the air. It burst in a puff of gray mist that smelled faintly of unfinished apologies. The laughter faltered. The glitter dimmed. Bubbles stopped mid-disco. The pixie queen frowned. “What did you do?” “Emotional dampening,” Peeb wheezed. “Never underestimate the power of mild disappointment.” The Glarewood sighed, colors settling back to normal. The pixie queen hovered crossly. “You’re no fun.” “Fun is subjective,” Peeb said, hands on hips. “Some of us enjoy stability and not being turned into interpretive performance art.” Renn, still catching her breath, straightened. “So that’s it? We broke a curse and unleashed a menace?” “Technically,” Peeb said, “we upgraded her from imprisoned evil to freelance chaos consultant.” “I like that,” the pixie queen said. “Put it on my card.” Before either could respond, she vanished in a sparkle explosion so excessive it probably violated several magical ordinances. Silence returned—mostly. The forest still glowed faintly, as if chuckling to itself. Renn exhaled, brushing leaves from her hair. “So what now?” Peeb shrugged. “We deliver the good news: the treasure was actually a trapped pixie monarch who now owes us a favor.” “A favor,” Renn repeated skeptically. “From her.” “Hey,” Peeb grinned, “I’m an optimist. Sometimes chaos pays better than gold.” They turned to leave the clearing. Behind them, the pond rippled gently. Bubbles raised one webbed hand in a slow, approving wave. Peeb waved back, solemn. “Stay moist, big guy.” As they disappeared into the glowing forest, the trees resumed their whispering, the moss exhaled, and a single echo lingered in the air—a soft chuckle that might’ve been the forest’s way of saying, Nice try. Peeb adjusted his satchel and smirked. “Next time,” he said, “we charge extra for emotional damage.” Renn laughed again—this time on purpose. “You’re insufferable.” “And yet,” Peeb said, with a little bow, “you’re still following me.” The path curved ahead, glowing faintly, promising more trouble. The kind that smelled like adventure, bad ideas, and the next great story. Bring a Piece of the Glade Home Can’t get enough of Peeb’s wild adventure through the Glarewood? Bring the magic (and a bit of mischief) home with our exclusive Gobsmacked in the Glade collection, inspired by Bill and Linda Tiepelman’s enchanting artwork. Whether you’re looking to elevate your décor or curl up in style, there’s a little goblin charm for everyone: Framed Print — perfect for adding a splash of whimsy to your walls. Wood Print — rich texture and earthy tones straight from the Glarewood itself. Fleece Blanket — because nothing says ‘cozy chaos’ like wrapping up in goblin-approved softness. Spiral Notebook — jot down your own questionable quests and mystical misadventures. Every piece captures the humor, color, and curiosity of Gobsmacked in the Glade — a reminder that magic, like good storytelling, belongs everywhere you let it in.
