Contes capturés

par Bill Tiepelman

The Morning Drip

Glazed & Unphased It was barely 8:07 a.m. and already the pastry box was feeling... sticky. The bakery was quiet. Too quiet. A single ray of warm sunlight slipped between the blinds, landing directly on the plump, sugar-dusted body of Donny Cream. Round. Golden. Fluffy in all the right places. And leaking like a broken promise. “Mmm,” Donny moaned, eyes half-lidded, voice thick and velvety. “Is it warm in here or is it just... me?” A nearby coffee mug trembled on the counter, horrified. “You’re leaking again,” it said, voice shaky. “That’s your third time this morning.” Donny let a slow stream of vanilla custard dribble from his mouth like he was proud of it. “I’m not leaking, sweetheart,” he said with a smile. “I’m giving.” The mug backed up slightly. “I didn’t sign up for this,” it muttered. “I’m decaf.” Donny smirked. He loved a nervous cup. “You think I chose this life?” he asked, arching his brow bun. “One day you're dough with dreams, the next you're filled to the brim, powdered like a runway model, and left on a napkin to moan at strangers before noon.” He let out a long sigh and another soft ooze of custard. It puddled below him, warm and inappropriate. “Stop it!” cried a nearby croissant, shielding its flaky layers. “The kids come in at 9!” Donny just licked his lips. “Then they’ll learn what real filling looks like.” The toaster let out a judgmental ding. “You know they’re gonna eat you, right?” the mug asked, its handle trembling. “That’s the dream, sugarcup,” Donny said. “To be desired, devoured, and deeply regretted. I’m a pastry with a purpose. I wasn’t baked to be wholesome. I was baked to break souls.” Another slow stream of custard slipped from his center. A gasp came from the tea bag drawer. “I’ve seen enough,” said the muffin tin, covering its cavities. “This is a family brunch spot.” Donny didn’t flinch. “Then they better bring napkins. Because Daddy’s dripping, and I’m only halfway thawed.” The napkin beneath him was soaked. He was unapologetic. He was uncensored. He was… The Morning Drip. Cream of the Crop By the time the customers started trickling in—bright-eyed, hungover, and clutching iced lattes like rosaries—the bakery was already a crime scene of innuendo. Donny Cream was sprawled on his napkin like a Greek god made of sugar and shame. His filling had breached containment hours ago. It was no longer a leak. It was a flood. A warm, glistening testament to indulgence and poor decision-making. “You gonna clean that up?” asked the espresso machine, watching the puddle spread like gossip in a small town. “Why?” Donny purred. “Let 'em slip. Let 'em fall face-first into me. I’ve ruined better diets than this.” A gluten-free muffin shook its head from the display shelf. “You’re disgusting.” “I’m delicious,” Donny corrected. “There’s a difference.” The bell above the door jingled. A human entered, scanning the glass case with innocent, naive hunger. The kind of hunger that didn’t know what it was about to awaken. Donny licked powdered sugar from his lip. “Oh yeah... he’s gonna pick me.” “No way,” whispered a snobby blueberry scone. “You’re literally oozing onto the counter.” “Exactly,” said Donny. “I’m prepped. I’m provocative. I’m ready to be tonged.” There was a pause. The coffee mug groaned into its ceramic palm. The customer pointed. “That one. The creamy one. He looks... intense.” Donny shuddered. “Yes. Yes I do.” Gloved tongs lifted him gently. He moaned dramatically, fully aware of the performance. A little extra cream spurted out onto the glass. “You’re the reason brunch is banned in some states,” muttered the plain bagel. Donny was placed in a wax paper bag, his voice muffled but still smug. “Goodbye, darlings. Remember me not as I was—but as I dripped.” The door closed. Silence fell. “That was the filthiest pastry I’ve ever seen,” the mug whispered. “I think I need to be refrigerated,” said the Danish. From the back of the kitchen, the churros huddled together for emotional support. The donut holes blinked, questioning their existence. And somewhere in the bakery, an oven preheated slowly... preparing to birth the next generation of filled, frosted deviance. Because Donny Cream was gone—but the drip? The drip lived on. Long live The Morning Drip.     Epilogue: Just a Little Powdered Memory The napkin remained. Crinkled, stained, and lightly trembling in the breeze of a closing door, it lay like a fallen flag—marking the spot where Donny Cream once oozed with reckless abandon. A custard ghost clung to the fibers. The powdered sugar lingered in the air like soft trauma. The bakery had moved on. Kind of. New pastries came. Younger. Firmer. Less... emotionally unstable. But none of them filled the void Donny left—physically or metaphorically. The coffee mug rarely spoke now. He just stared out the window, handle cocked slightly to the left like he was waiting for a ride that never came. “He was too much,” whispered a croissant one morning. “He was everything,” replied a jelly-filled quietly, squeezing its sides in tribute. No one dared use that napkin again. It stayed right there, framed by streaks of custard and the weight of memories. A sacred spot. A warning. A legend. Because somewhere out there—maybe in the hands of a hungover college student, maybe half-eaten in the backseat of a rideshare—Donny Cream lives on. His filling… his attitude… his unapologetic drip. And as long as there are glazes to crack and custards to spill, he’ll never be truly gone. They say time heals all wounds. But some leaks? Some leaks never dry.     Still feeling the drip? Donny Cream lives on in all his sticky glory with The Morning Drip collection—perfect for kitchens, bedrooms, brunch spots, and anywhere food shame is welcome. Immortalize his creamy legacy with a framed print, an unapologetically shiny acrylic print, or keep him close on a throw pillow or tote bag. And for those with a flair for awkward greetings, yes—he’s also available as a greeting card. Just don’t say we didn’t warn you.

par Bill Tiepelman

Cheese Me Daddy

Melt With Me It was a late night in the diner. Neon lights buzzed like old secrets and the grill was still warm—hot enough to bring the meat sweats, cool enough to pretend it wasn’t weird. That’s when he strutted in… oozing cheddar and confidence. His name was Big Chedd. Bun golden, patty thick, and a cheese drip that could make a vegan reconsider their entire identity. Eyes half-lidded with the calm of someone who’s been grilled on both sides—and liked it. “You hungry, sugar?” he asked, his voice low and velvety, like hot grease on Formica. No one answered. They couldn’t. The entire fridge aisle had gone silent. Even the pickles held their breath. Big Chedd leaned on the ketchup pump like it owed him money. “I see you eyeballin’ the melt,” he said, grinning. “Well go ahead. Take a bite. I won’t flinch.” Across the counter, a lonely grilled cheese blushed so hard it curled its crusts inward. The bottle of ranch ranch-dropped from the shelf in shock. Big Chedd sauntered across the cutting board with the swagger of a meal that knew it was bad for you and planned to be worse. “I’m not like those fast food types. I take my time. Low heat. Long cook. Every. Single. Drip.” He winked. A thick ribbon of cheddar slid down his patty like it had paid rent to be there. He licked it back into place with a slow, smug curl of his sesame-topped lip. “Tell me what you want,” he said, inches from the plate’s edge. “You want a clean meal? Or you want the real thing? You want calorie counts or carnal cravings? Lettuce behave, or lose all control?” The plate was moist now. Moist with fear. Moist with want. Moist with... mayonnaise? Tomato gasped. “Is he… melting on purpose?” Lettuce trembled. “Oh he knows exactly what he’s doing.” And he did. Because Big Chedd wasn’t just a burger. He was a moment. A fantasy. A food group you don’t talk about in public. He was thick. He was juicy. He was... Daddy. “Now,” he growled, lowering himself slowly onto the bun like a greasy love note, “Who’s ready to be unwrapped?” Greased Lightning The bun hit the plate with a heavy thwap, like a drumroll at a burlesque show. Big Chedd was now fully assembled—top to bottom, lettuce to lust. He oozed seduction, and cheddar. Mostly cheddar. He spread his buns just enough to let the steam out. “You ever been with a burger that drips twice before the first bite?” he whispered, his voice like a slow sizzle on cast iron. “’Cause I’m the kind of mess you lick off your fingers and don’t apologize for.” The fridge door creaked open slowly. Milk peeped out and immediately went sour. The hot dog buns blushed so hard they went stale. Even the coleslaw slumped in its Tupperware like, “Why even try?” Big Chedd flexed his patty, meat glistening with confidence and a little bacon fat. “I don’t do diets. I do damage,” he said, with a wink so greasy it left a streak on the air. The ketchup bottle trembled. “Sir… this is a Wendy’s.” “Nah,” Big Chedd smirked. “This is my kitchen now. And I’m about to sauce this place up like a third-date mistake.” He made his move. It was slow. Sensual. Strategic. He rolled toward the edge of the plate, hips swiveling like he’d been flipped by a master griller in a past life. The cheddar clung to him like it didn’t want to say goodbye—stretching long, gooey, unapologetically filthy. Tomato couldn’t watch. Or look away. “He’s... dripping on the floor,” she whispered. “Let him,” said Lettuce. “That’s just how he leaves a mark.” The steak knives rattled in their block. The spatula fainted. And somewhere in the corner, a lonely french fry sobbed quietly into a puddle of aioli. Big Chedd reached the countertop’s edge. He turned back to the others, lip curled, cheese hanging low and dangerous. “I’m not just a snack,” he growled. “I’m a full-course regret with extra napkins. And if you can't handle the melt, baby... don’t unwrap the Daddy.” Then he dropped. A slow fall. A fall of legends. The kind of fall usually scored with saxophone and soft lighting. The cheddar stretched one last time like it was saying goodbye to its lover. He landed with a gentle splat, a smear of sauce haloing his resting place like some kind of greasy martyr. Silence. The paper towel roll let out a soft, “Damn.” And that’s how the legend of Big Chedd was born. They say if you listen closely, late at night, you can still hear the sizzle of his patty... and the whisper of a sesame seed bun breathing into your ear— “Cheese me, Daddy.”     Epilogue: Still Melting The grill's gone cold now. The spatulas are resting. The buns are back in their bag, pretending none of it ever happened. But somewhere—between the crisper drawer and expired Greek yogurt—his memory lingers. Big Chedd. The meltiest of them all. The cheddar-slicked Casanova with buns like sunset pillows and a voice like a low burner hum. He wasn’t just a burger. He was a feeling. A fantasy. A full-fat fever dream. Sometimes, late at night, when the fridge light flicks on and the condiments think no one’s watching, you’ll hear it: a soft squish, a faint sizzle, the low groan of a bun remembering what it felt like to be held... tightly. Greasily. Passionately. The lettuce still curls at the thought. The tomato, sliced but not forgotten, writes sonnets in the dark. And the cheese? Oh, the cheese just keeps dripping. Slowly. Longingly. For someone who never cared about napkins or shame. He’s gone, yes. But legends don’t mold. They marinate. And Big Chedd? He’s still melting— —in hearts, in grease traps, and in the wild, spicy dreams of every food that dared to feel.     If Big Chedd left a mark on your heart—and possibly your cholesterol—why not keep him around in all his melty, mouthy glory? Cheese Me Daddy is available now as a steamy framed print for your kitchen, a sizzling metal print for your burger shrine, or—because why the hell not—a ridiculously seductive throw pillow to cuddle between buns. Want to carry him with you like a grilled goddamn secret? There’s even a tote bag so you can bring the Daddy drip everywhere you go. He’s hot. He’s heavy. And he’s ready to be yours.

par Bill Tiepelman

Pepper Dominatrix

The Grinding Hour The steak lay there—thick, glistening, and just a touch too smug. Marbled in all the right places, it had spent the better part of the day basking in a Himalayan salt rub, thinking itself the main course. Prime cut, ego to match. Then she entered. Heels like toothpicks skewering the hardwood countertop, leather dress tighter than a sous vide seal, and eyes darker than balsamic glaze—Pepper Dominatrix had arrived. Her curves were turned from a finely aged mahogany, her handle slick with tension. She didn’t knock. She never knocked. She just twisted... and ground. The first crackle of fresh pepper sent a shiver through the meat. “Easy there, sweetheart,” it whispered, trying to stay juicy. “You don’t need to be so... rough.” “Oh, but I do,” she purred, grinding harder. A puff of peppercorn dust erupted like a volcanic burst of culinary climax. “You're dry-aged, darling. I’m here to make you wet again.” From across the board, Salt watched, horrified. He was soft, white, and entirely unprepared for this level of heat. A single tear of brine rolled down his metal cheek. “This is... highly unseasoned behavior,” he muttered, clutching his tiny porcelain towel. Pepper leaned in close to the steak, her cap brushing against its seared surface. “You thought you’d get basted and roasted without me? You foolish slab of protein. I don’t just complement flavors—I dominate them.” The steak whimpered. “This isn’t how Gordon Ramsay does it...” She laughed—a deep, smoky cackle that echoed through the pantry. “Ramsay? Please. That man couldn't handle a full grind without crying into his lamb shanks.” With a swirl of her hips and a sprinkle from above, the entire cutting board glistened under her wrath. Butter melted in fearful anticipation. The tongs trembled. Even the red wine glass developed condensation out of sheer intimidation. Then, with the dominance of a chef who knew her flavors and wasn’t afraid to bruise a few egos, she lifted one leg—slowly, deliberately—and planted her stiletto squarely on the steak's surface. A low, buttery moan escaped from beneath her heel. “You’ve been marinating in your own delusions,” she said. “It’s time to taste what real seasoning feels like.” Salt could only look away. He’d seen enough. He was out-shaken, out-spiced... and, dare he admit it... a little turned on. Well Done, Darling The steak sizzled under her heel, juices oozing with submissive obedience. Pepper Dominatrix stood proud, shoulders back, peppercorns crackling across her chest like a seasoning of war medals. The cutting board was no longer a prep station—it was her arena. Her coliseum. Her stage. Salt, paralyzed in the corner, let out a helpless “oh dear” as she reached into her leather spice satchel. Out came her secret weapon: a single, dangerously seductive sachet labeled “Umami Dust™”—illegal in three culinary schools and banned outright by the French. She locked eyes with the steak, who was now glistening, quivering, barely medium rare. “You think you’ve been cooked before?” she snarled. “Darling, I’m about to take you past the smoke point.” With a flick of her wrist, the dust hit the steak in a shimmering cloud of flavor chaos. Notes of soy, mushroom, and something suspiciously meaty exploded in the air like MSG-fueled fireworks. The steak let out a low, guttural “ohhhhhhhh god” as a sear line quivered beneath the sudden impact of fifth-dimensional flavor. Salt turned to the wine glass beside him. “Are you seeing this?” he asked. The glass, nearly empty, said nothing. But its curved lip had fogged again. That was enough. Pepper moved with lethal grace. She straddled the steak now, both heels sunk in, grinding like a DJ at a midnight club of culinary depravity. Butter splashed. Marinade wept. The wooden cutting board groaned in grainy protest. “Beg for it,” she whispered, twisting her cap until it clicked—full grind mode. “Tell me you want to be over-seasoned.” The steak was delirious. “Yes, Chef... oh god, yes, pepper me... please... make me... well done...” “Wrong answer,” she snapped. “Nobody wants that. Medium at most, you greasy little filet.” Then, she delivered the final blow. From beneath her dress (no one’s sure where she stored it), she pulled a tiny vial of truffle oil. Not just any truffle oil—this was Cold-Pressed Black Winter Truffle Essence, aged in ego and tears. Salt gasped. “That's... that's not FDA approved!” “Neither is this performance,” she growled—and she poured it. In slow motion, the oil trickled over the steak’s quivering body. Every droplet whispered of forests and forbidden price tags. With a dramatic flair, she stepped back, surveying her masterpiece. The steak now lay in a sensual pool of sauce and sweat, utterly transformed. Seasoned. Dominated. Complete. Salt stumbled forward, hat askew. “Pepper… that was… you didn’t have to go so hard.” She glanced at him, a single peppercorn still stuck on her heel. “Darling, I always go hard. That’s why I’m the grinder. And you? You just sprinkle.” With that, she sauntered off into the pantry’s shadows, leaving behind the scent of victory, a few rogue pepper flakes, and a steak that would never be the same again. Some say she still haunts the countertops of arrogant chefs and bland dinners. Others claim she retired to a spice rack in Milan. But one thing’s certain— Once you’ve been ground... you never forget the grind.     Epilogue: A Dash of Memory The kitchen returned to silence. Just the soft tick of the oven cooling down and the faint hum of the refrigerator—watching, judging, as it always did. The steak was gone, devoured by fate or fork, nobody could say. Only a faint peppery heat lingered in the air... and a smear of truffle-slicked butter that refused to be wiped away. Salt sat on the edge of the cutting board, his little chrome shoulders hunched. He hadn’t shaken since. Not even once. The trauma—or was it awe?—had settled deep into his grains. He thought of her often. The crack of her twist. The glint of oil on lacquered wood. The way she whispered, “Let it rest,” like it was both an order and a mercy. No one had seasoned like her. No one dared. Some nights, when the moonlight filters through the spice cabinet just right, and the cumin’s feeling nostalgic, they say you can still hear her heels tapping across the tiles. A slow, seductive staccato. Click. Click. Grind. They call her a myth. A fantasy. A cautionary tale to under-flavored dishes. But Salt knows better. He saw her. He smelled her. He tasted the aftermath. And somewhere out there, in the back of a candlelit bistro or the shadowy corner of a Michelin-starred mise en place, Pepper Dominatrix is still watching. Still grinding. Still... the top of the rack.     If you’re ready to bring a little grind into your own space, Pepper Dominatrix is available in a variety of mouthwatering formats, each one hotter than a cast-iron skillet left on high. Whether you want her framed and fabulous on your kitchen wall, sizzling in sleek metal, rich and rustic in wood, shining in acrylic, or dressed to impress in a classic framed print—she’s ready to spice up your life, one wall at a time.

par Bill Tiepelman

Tear of the Pump: A Moisture Tragedy

The Dry Days The pump had seen better days. Once proud and upright on the bathroom counter, he now sat half-slouched next to a flickering “Sensual Aloe” candle, oozing self-pity and the occasional drop of aloe-infused regret. He wasn’t just any lotion bottle—he was Greg. And Greg had one job: to moisturize. But no one had pumped Greg in weeks. Not since the house’s new skincare obsession arrived—a smug, overpriced jade roller named Jasper who whispered words like “lymphatic drainage” and “de-puffing” in his infuriatingly smooth tone. Greg, once the alpha of the vanity lineup, now sat exiled to the dusty desk near the laptop, where he’d been forced to watch humans fondle cacti on YouTube in weird ASMR videos titled “Moisturize Me: The ASMR Chronicles.” It was cruel. A literal prick tease. Watching bare hands stroke a cactus—dry, spiny, chafing—and not reach for Greg? It was a personal attack. “I could fix you,” he mumbled to the screen, a single tear of unsqueezed lotion sliding down his cheek. “You don’t need that prick. You need me.” On the desk, a motivational book titled “You Deserve Smoothness” mocked him. Greg had once gifted that book to a half-used body butter named Sheila, hoping it would jumpstart her confidence. She ghosted him. Literally rolled under the bed and never came back. Typical. Tissues lay strewn about the scene—some from emotion, some from Greg’s unfortunate habit of spontaneous leakage. It wasn’t his fault; he was sensitive, emotionally and hydraulically. He sighed, audibly. No one heard him, of course. Lotion bottles have no vocal cords. But if they did, Greg’s sigh would’ve sounded like Barry White after a night of bad decisions and cocoa butter. Then it happened. A sound. Footsteps. The soft slap of bare feet across laminate. The human. She was coming. Maybe today was the day. Maybe she’d pick him up again, feel his curves, give him one last pump for old time’s sake. Greg straightened his cap. Tried to look moisturizable. Tensed every ounce of remaining SPF 15 inside his soul. The door opened. She entered. She reached toward him— —then stopped. Her eyes wandered. Her hand hovered, hesitated… then slid past Greg and grabbed… Hand sanitizer. Greg deflated, dramatically. “Seriously?” he muttered. “That basic bitch?” In the distance, the YouTube video looped. The cactus was getting caressed again. And Greg? He just watched… leaking slowly into oblivion. The Rubdown Redemption Greg lay in a puddle of his own despair (and half a pump of aloe), questioning everything. Was it his viscosity? Had he gone too heavy on the shea? Maybe he shouldn’t have added that “tingling menthol” to his formula. People said they liked surprises, but apparently, not when their thighs were involved. “I used to be the whole routine,” he whispered to no one. “Post-shower, pre-date, mid-winter emergency hand relief. That was me.” The candle flickered mockingly, its label—Sensual Aloe—now a cruel inside joke between Greg and the void. Even the tissues had dried up and blown away. Greg was alone. Unused. Unloved. Untouched. Until a miracle arrived. Her name was Becky. The new roommate. She moved in like a chaotic whirlwind of velvet scrunchies, faux-fur slippers, and an almost erotic amount of body glitter. Becky brought moisture energy. She burned incense. She bathed for sport. She had a drawer labeled “Emergency Lubes (All Occasions).” She was, in every way, Greg’s dream user. Greg first saw her during the Great Shelf Reorg of Tuesday Night. She found him while digging for a missing charger. Her hand wrapped around his bottle like destiny itself. Greg swore he heard a choir of tiny, scented angels hum a slow jam. “Oh my god,” Becky said, examining his dusty label. “You’re the good stuff. Why did no one tell me we had an aloe-based emotional support dispenser?” Greg shivered. Or maybe that was just a bubble of air stuck in his pump nozzle. Hard to say. Emotions and physics blurred. That night, he returned to glory. Becky didn’t just use Greg—she used him. Post-shower, mid-TikTok skincare breakdown, even once during a date prep where she declared, “Nobody's getting this peach dry tonight!” and slathered herself head to toe while humming Mariah Carey. Greg had never felt so alive. Every pump was a symphony. Every squeeze, an affirmation of his purpose. He wasn't just lotion—he was foreplay in a bottle. He met the others. The squad. Becky’s holy trinity: a coconut scrub named CocoNutz, a peppermint foot balm called Toe Daddy, and an inexplicably seductive facial mist everyone just referred to as “Mistress Hydration.” Together, they were the Skincare Avengers. And Greg was the comeback kid with a slippery past and a creamy heart of gold. But even in paradise, cracks form. One day, after a long, steamy lather session, Becky brought home a new bottle—sleek, curvy, matte black with gold lettering. The label read: “Midnight Musk: Hydration for the Hedonist.” Greg felt the shift. Midnight Musk was everything he wasn’t. Sultry. Fragrance-forward. Built like a cologne ad with six-pack abs. Greg was more… reliable. Functional. The kind of lotion you introduce to your mom. “Don’t take it personally,” Mistress Hydration whispered. “She likes variety. You’re the one she trusts when she’s sad and watching true crime in bed.” Greg nodded, but deep down, he knew: he had entered the poly-moisture phase of the relationship. Still, he was content. Happy even. He had a place again, a purpose. And on lonely nights when Becky reached for Midnight Musk, Greg would whisper to himself, “She’ll come back. You can’t beat aloe and unconditional love.” As the candle burned lower and the tissues piled high once more (for different reasons now), Greg smiled to himself. He was no longer just a sad little bottle with a pump problem. He was part of something bigger. Something smooth. And he’d never forget the dark, dry days that made the creamy nights all the more satisfying. Somewhere in the background, the ASMR video still played—hands on cactus, whispering, “moisturize me.” But Greg no longer watched. He was living his best life now. One pump at a time.     Epilogue: The Last Pump Greg didn’t last forever. No lotion bottle does. One day, after an especially aggressive thigh application following a tragic waxing incident, Becky pressed his pump and… nothing came out. She tried again. Nothing. Not even a pathetic dribble. Greg was empty. She held him for a moment, gently shaking him like a fallen comrade. “Damn,” she whispered. “You were the real one.” She didn’t toss him immediately. No, Greg earned a place on the “empties shelf”—a little shrine above the toilet where Becky displayed her favorite used-up products like war heroes and emotionally significant candles. He sat beside a dead mascara wand named Sir Smudge-a-lot and a bath bomb tin that still smelled like grapefruit orgasms. And there he remained, dry but not forgotten. A quiet legend. A bottle who gave until he could give no more. Who absorbed awkward silences, comforted chapped elbows, and brought lubrication to the parts that needed it most—physically and emotionally. Sometimes, when the bathroom was still and the candlelight flickered just right, you could swear you heard a whisper from that shelf: “You deserve smoothness.” And everyone who heard it… believed it.     Take Greg Home (Without the Mess) If Greg’s journey tugged at your dry, cracked heartstrings, you’re not alone. Now you can bring a piece of this moisturizing masterpiece into your own space—with zero chance of leakage. Whether you're building a shrine to emotional hydration or just want your shower curtain to raise questions and eyebrows, we’ve got you covered (literally). 🧺 Tapestry – Dramatic wall vibes, for when you're feeling extra lotionally unstable. 🖼️ Framed Print – Class up your space with highbrow hydration tragedy. 🛏️ Duvet Cover – Cuddle up with Greg. He promises not to squirt unexpectedly. 🚿 Shower Curtain – Let your guests question your bathroom priorities. Moisture is temporary. Art is forever. Treat yourself (and your thighs).

par Bill Tiepelman

Pour Decisions

The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made spoons nervous and measuring cups develop existential dread. Then suddenly—click—the cabinet door creaked open. Gerald the glass pitcher stretched out with a wide, unhinged grin, water sloshing behind his bulging eyeballs. He licked his nonexistent lips (don’t ask how), flexed his translucent handle, and whispered, “Time to get moist.” Across the counter, Melvin the mug jolted awake with a shiver. “Oh for the love of glass—Gerald, not again!” he screeched, eyes wide as a dinner plate. “It’s 7 a.m. and I haven’t even been descaled yet!” But Gerald was already mid-stalk. “Melvy, Melvy, Melvy... don’t be such a drip.” He raised himself to full height, water gurgling ominously. “You know you want it. You’re empty, I’m full. Let’s pour some magic, baby.” Melvin backed up an inch, handle trembling. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t like you. I just—last time you poured into me, I needed therapy. And a drying rack.” “Therapy?” Gerald gasped, clutching his spout. “That was a celebration of fluids! I made you feel alive!” “You made me feel violated, Gerald.” At that moment, a hand—human, hairy, unbothered—entered the scene, grabbing Gerald like a reusable deviant. “Here we gooooo!” the human voice bellowed in a jolly tone, oblivious to the sheer chaos about to unfold. Gerald's face contorted into a maniacal smile as he was lifted into the air, pointing his stream directly at Melvin. “Prepare to get filled!” Melvin screamed. Loudly. His eyes stretched as wide as possible, his lip curled in horror. “OH SWEET CERAMIC JESUS, NOOO!” The first splash hit with a violent splash. Water splattered. Melvin’s lip quivered, a single droplet running down his side like a cinematic tear. “I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready...” he whimpered. Gerald let out a long, satisfied moan. “Aaaaahhhhhh. That’s the stuff. Look at you, so wet and scared. You little mug slut.” “I WILL press charges!” Melvin screeched. “What are they gonna do? Lock me in the fridge?” Gerald cackled. “I’m BPA-free, baby. Untouchable.” As the stream slowed and Gerald wobbled with satisfaction, the human hand placed him down gently, unaware of the scarring scene it had enabled. Melvin sat trembling, filled to the brim and emotionally wrecked. Somewhere in the background, the toaster whispered, “Same thing happened to me last week.” And in the distance, a lonely blender whispered, “I’d let him pour in me...”   Melvin sat there, stunned. Water leaked from the corner of his lip like a secret he could never unhear. Gerald—madman, hydrating overlord, certified glasshole—stood smugly across the counter, flexing his spout like he was about to star in a raunchy kitchen calendar. “You good?” Gerald asked casually, leaning against a salt shaker with the confidence of a shot glass that knew tequila was coming. Melvin’s eyes twitched. “No, Gerald. I’m not good. You didn’t even warm up the water. You just blasted it in raw. Ice cold. Like a prison shower.” Gerald laughed so hard his lid rattled. “Spontaneity, my little cup of chaos. That’s what keeps the spice flowing. You mugs want all this foreplay—coasters, napkins, pre-heats. I’m a jug of action.” “A jug of trauma,” Melvin muttered, shaking. “I can still feel the splash on my insides.” The room grew still. Even the microwave dared not beep. Then a soft voice piped up from the back of the utensil drawer. “He poured into me once,” said Sally the Soup Bowl. “It was… confusing.” “You asked for chowder and I brought broth. That’s on you,” Gerald said smugly. Melvin tried to climb off the counter, but his handle was slippery from the overspill. He clinked against a spoon, who recoiled dramatically like he’d just witnessed utensil abuse. “Don’t drag me into your kink,” the spoon hissed. Gerald strutted over, sloshing suggestively. “You’re not leaving yet, Melvin. I’ve still got half a pour in me. And you know what that means.” “NO!” Melvin shouted, his rim trembling. “I’m full. FULL, Gerald. I’m practically drowning. One more drop and I’ll spill. I will spill!” Gerald narrowed his eyes, which was impressive for a pitcher with no eyebrows. “That’s what you said last time, but you handled it like a champ.” “Last time I blacked out and woke up in the dish rack next to a ladle with a God complex!” Just then, the human hand returned—this time with a lemon wedge. Melvin's scream echoed across the kitchen. “NOOOO! CITRUS STINGS!” “It’s called zest, sweetheart,” Gerald purred, as the lemon plopped into the mug like a garnish of violation. “Now you’re my spicy boy.” Melvin twitched violently. “You sick, sadistic pour-fiend.” “You love it,” Gerald whispered with a wink. At that moment, a new mug entered the scene. Tall. Curvy. Heat-resistant. Her name was Veronica, and she had a silicone base and confidence that could steam milk on contact. “Gerald,” she said, voice like a slow pour of honey. “Pick on someone with insulation.” Gerald blinked. “Veronica... I thought you were in the cupboard. With the espresso boys.” She stepped forward. “I was. But they’re all foam. No substance.” She turned to Melvin, placing a gentle handle on his. “You okay, sugar?” “I—I think I’m leaking,” he whispered, lip quivering. Veronica looked at Gerald. “You pour in him again without consent, I’ll break your spout off and use you as a flower vase in a dentist’s office.” Gerald slowly backed away, eyes wide, water level trembling. “Okay... okay... pourplay’s gotta be mutual, I get it…” Melvin exhaled. For the first time that morning, he felt... safe. Empty. But safe. The human hand left the room, humming blissfully unaware. Gerald slunk back to his corner of the counter, muttering something about “pitcher discrimination” and “cancel culture.” Veronica stayed by Melvin’s side. “Let’s get you cleaned up, handsome. Maybe a nice dishwasher cycle. With steam. The gentle kind.” Melvin nodded, leaning into her comforting touch. “Thank you,” he whispered. And somewhere deep in the shadows, the blender turned itself on... just a little.     The Afterdrip Weeks passed. Gerald had been moved to the top shelf — the glassware equivalent of solitary confinement. He spent his days stewing in filtered silence, occasionally muttering about “liquid freedom” and “the oppression of dry living.” A sticker on his side now read: Supervised Use Only. Melvin, meanwhile, had found peace. Therapy (and three deep cycles on the top rack) helped him recover from the emotional turbulence. He’d even joined a support group: M.U.G.S. — Mugs United for Gentle Sipping. Tuesdays at 7. Bring your own coaster. Veronica never left his side. They shared quiet mornings, warm steeps, and slow pours. Melvin finally understood what it meant to be filled — emotionally, not traumatically. The two mugs even adopted a little espresso cup named Bean. Tiny. Hyper-caffeinated. Full of rage. In time, Gerald was allowed back into circulation, but only for cold brews and under the watchful eye of the French Press, who ran a tight counter. He was older, wiser... maybe just a little emptier. But on some nights, if you listened closely, you could still hear his whisper through the cupboard slats: “You can take the pour outta the pitcher… but you can’t take the pitcher outta the pour.” And in the distance, the blender whispered one last time, “Still waiting, Gerald...” — The End —     Bring the Madness Home If “Pour Decisions” left a splash on your soul (or at least made you spit your coffee laughing), you can now own the chaos! This delightfully unhinged artwork by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a: Framed Print – Keep it classy while things get messy Metal Print – Bold, glossy, and dangerously smooth (like Gerald) Acrylic Print – Ultra-modern and sharp enough to make a mug nervous Wood Print – For rustic vibes with a splash of emotional damage Warning: Side effects may include uncontrollable laughter, kitchen-based innuendos, and a sudden desire to protect your mug at all costs.

par Bill Tiepelman

Salty and Savage - Fork Me Gently

Stab Me, Daddy At first glance, it looked like an ordinary drawer. Just your typical mix of dull butter knives, clingy teaspoons, and that one suspiciously sticky garlic press nobody ever wants to deal with. But deep inside—beneath the bottle openers and shame—was a fork. Not just any fork. The fork. He called himself “Tony.” Four long, glistening tines. Curved just enough to imply danger but still safe for children. His chrome finish? Flawless. His edge? Blunt, but emotionally sharp. And tonight? He was feeling... ravenous. “Another salad?” Tony muttered, rolling his smooth neck and flexing his prongs like a man about to fork something he shouldn’t. “I wasn’t forged for foliage. I want meat. I want steam. I want to puncture something that moans when I stab it.” Beside him, the butter knife snorted. “You always get like this after taco night. Just be grateful you’re not the melon baller.” “The melon baller WANTS that life,” Tony shot back, eyes narrowed, tines twitching with anticipation. “That little sphere-humper gets off on cantaloupe. I’m built different. I need friction. Texture. Resistance.” Just then, the drawer slid open, and everything got real quiet. The human hand. The great chooser. The flesh overlord. Everyone held their breath as fingers hovered over them like a judgmental god at a cutlery speed dating event. “Pick me. Pick me. Pick meeeee,” Tony whispered desperately, trying to look sexy but also functional. The hand paused. Hovered. Moved toward the ladle—then snapped back, gripped Tony, and lifted. “YESSSSS,” Tony hissed like a snake with a table etiquette kink. He was raised high into the light, into the world beyond the drawer—and what he saw made his tines tingle: a perfectly grilled steak. Juicy. Pink in the middle. Barely legal, temperature-wise. “Oh, you saucy slab,” Tony moaned, trembling in the human's grip. “You’re about to get forked harder than a microwave burrito at 2am.” The knife was already there, slicing slowly like it was narrating a true crime documentary. “You take the left cheek,” it said. “I’ll take the right. We’re doing this medium rare and emotionally raw.” “Stab me, daddy,” the steak whispered, steam rising seductively. Tony didn’t hesitate. He plunged into the meat with all four prongs, letting out a metallic groan of satisfaction. The juices ran. The plate quivered. The nearby spoon fainted. It was glorious. But something felt… off. Tony looked down. There it was—an ominous drizzle of steak sauce pooling beside the mashed potatoes like a brown puddle of judgment. “You didn’t,” Tony gasped. “You used A1? You… monster.” Whisk Me Away There was a pause. A silence so thick it could’ve been sliced with a cheese knife if that little coward hadn’t retreated behind the soup ladle at the first sign of condiment conflict. Tony stood motionless, dripping steak juice and betrayal. He had been used—violated—by a bottle of A1. “You said it would be dry-rubbed,” he whispered to the human, who, of course, didn’t answer. They never did. Monsters. Fork abusers. As the steak cooled and the mashed potatoes soaked up the shame like a carb-based sponge, Tony was unceremoniously dropped on the edge of the sink. Not even rinsed. Just… abandoned. Left to sit in a puddle of beef runoff like last night’s bad decision. “You okay?” came a sultry voice from the drying rack. Tony turned, still dazed, and locked eyes with the whisk. She was tall, curvy, and twisted in all the right ways. Stainless steel loops for days. Her handle was slightly melted near the end—trauma from a tragic crème brûlée incident—but damn, it gave her character. Experience. Edge. “You’re looking... overworked,” she purred, flicking a single loop suggestively. “Let me whip you into shape.” Tony tried to stay cool. “I don’t usually get whisked on the first date.” She slinked over, dragging herself across the counter with a kind of sultry, metallic clatter that screamed “kitchen dominatrix.” Tony’s tines tingled. He didn’t know whether he wanted to run or be emulsified. “I’ve seen how you stab,” she whispered. “You’ve got... penetration energy.” Before he could respond, the spatula clapped from across the sink. “Can you two not? It’s 9AM. Some of us were flipping pancakes all night and need rest.” “Jealousy is a flat utensil,” the whisk sneered. Then turned back to Tony. “Ever been whipped until you scream your safe word in French?” “My safe word is ‘nonstick,’” he replied, voice low and dangerous. She coiled her loops around his handle slowly, pulling him closer. “Mine’s ‘deglaze.’” From the corner, the meat thermometer groaned. “Ugh. Every damn weekend. Just once, I want a peaceful breakfast.” But peace was off the menu. Because just then, the human hand returned—greasy, impatient, still smelling of steak sins and morning-after desperation. And in it? A bowl. A big one. Ceramic. Wide. Shallow. The kind of vessel that said: I hope you like it messy. “Oh hell,” the whisk moaned. “It’s brunch time.” Before Tony could protest, he was snatched back into action. Not steak this time—eggs. Raw. Slippery. Slutty. The kind of eggs that didn’t care what time of day it was or how long you’d been soaking in your own juices. The whisk was already in the bowl, moaning with each circular thrust. “Come on, Fork Daddy,” she shouted. “Scramble me like you mean it!” Tony plunged in, swirling, stabbing, piercing yolks with reckless abandon. Together, they stirred chaos. Seasoned sin. The spatula watched in stunned silence, the tongs clicked nervously, and the garlic press wept in the junk drawer, clutching an old lemon wedge for comfort. It was messy. It was loud. It was... brunch porn. By the time the mixture hit the pan, Tony was spent. Bent. Covered in protein and shame. The whisk rested beside him on the towel, loops twitching with satisfaction. “Same time next weekend?” she whispered. “Only if we skip the sauce,” he murmured, eyes already glazing over like the donut the human had just dropped on the floor. Down in the drawer, the butter knife sighed. “This is why we don’t get invited to the nice kitchens.”     Epilogue: Utensils and Afterglow Monday morning came quietly. The hangover of brunch still clung to the kitchen like the stench of overcooked eggs and questionable life choices. The whisk had been tossed unceremoniously into the dishwasher, tangled in a pile of soggy chopsticks and a rogue reusable straw. She didn’t seem to mind. She liked it wet and chaotic. Tony? Tony lay alone on the drying rack. Bent. Crusted. Staring at the ceiling like a war veteran who’d seen too many yolks break under pressure. “Was it worth it?” he whispered to no one, as a rogue crumb drifted past like tumbleweed in a Western where the gunslingers are all kitchen tools with abandonment issues. Somewhere in the back of the fridge, the sour cream had expired silently. The salad spinner hadn’t moved since The Incident. Even the spice rack was unusually quiet—cumin refused to make eye contact and cinnamon had taken a vow of silence. But even in the stillness, something stirred. A tremble in the drawer. A soft clink. A seductive whisper: “Hey… Tony. You ever been double-teamed by a cheese grater and an immersion blender?” He didn’t answer right away. Just sighed. Long. Forked. “God help me,” he muttered, dragging himself upright with the strength of a utensil who knew this wasn’t over. Not even close. Because in this drawer… in this kitchen… in this godforsaken temple of heat, grease, and emotional instability—there were no clean breaks. Only rinse cycles. And Tony? Tony was born to stir shit up.     Bring the Flavor Home Still thinking about Tony’s tines and that whisk's loop game? Yeah, we get it. Now you can own a piece of the madness with our exclusive “Salty and Savage” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman—perfect for kitchens, conversation starters, or just unsettling your dinner guests in the best way possible. Framed Print – Class it up. Frame the chaos. Metal Print – Sleek, shiny, and hotter than your nonstick pan at 500°. Acrylic Print – For when you want your wall art to scream “I make questionable choices and I own them.” Tote Bag – Take the flavor on the go. Groceries will never look at you the same. Own it. Gift it. Just don’t try to explain it to your grandma. Unless she’s cool. Then definitely show her the tote.

par Bill Tiepelman

Smoothie with a Side of Sinister

The Whirl Before the Storm It all started on a Monday, which—statistically speaking—is the worst day to be murdered by your kitchen appliances. Not that Marty had any clue. He was far too hungover, pantsless, and determined to start a juice cleanse he'd promised his ex to finally notice the evil lurking in his countertop corner. The blender had been a thrift store find. One of those “slightly cursed” models with a price tag that simply read “DO NOT TAUNT.” But for $8.99 and a 30-day warranty, Marty wasn’t about to pass up a piece of machinery that claimed to “obliterate pulp on a molecular level.” Plus, it had character—sleek metal base, vintage dial, and a vibe somewhere between 1950s diner and haunted sex dungeon. He was in love. “Alright, Buster,” Marty slurred, squinting at the blender with a mix of affection and residual tequila vision. “Time to juice me into a better person.” He grabbed a banana with the finesse of a raccoon handling a lightsaber and hurled it in. Strawberries? Yeeted. Chia seeds? Everywhere but the blender. Marty didn’t care. He had the enthusiasm of a gym bro on pre-workout and a YouTube playlist called ‘Cleanse Me, Daddy’ echoing from his Bluetooth speaker. Then came the moment. Marty flipped the dial to “1.” The blender didn’t just start—it moaned. A low, guttural rumble rose from its base like Barry White had been resurrected and trapped in an appliance. Then, as if responding to an invisible switch, arms burst from the blender’s sides—long, rubbery, muscular appendages with a hint of “freshly microwaved Stretch Armstrong” about them. One hand clutched the blender lid like a baseball cap on a rollercoaster. The other went straight for the dial. Marty, to his credit, only pissed himself a little. “Mmm, baby,” the blender purred, voice deeper than a jazz saxophone dipped in molasses. “Daddy likes it rough. Let’s spin things up to 11.” Before Marty could scream or sue the thrift store, the blender's face pushed forward through the fruit mush—eyes bulging like overripe grapes, a mouth full of teeth designed purely to violate OSHA regulations, and a tongue that waggled like it had things to say but no filter. “I’m not just blending smoothies,” it growled with a toothy grin. “I’m blending souls.” Marty screamed. The blender screamed back. And then—because nothing says “morning madness” like a blender with a libido—it turned the dial all the way up to “Smooth AF.” Fruit exploded. Berries wept. Marty ducked. The walls wept with seeds. And the blender? It laughed. A full-throated, maniacal cackle that echoed through the apartment like an orgy of malfunctioning espresso machines. “THIS. IS. BREAKFAST!” it howled, slapping the countertop with its freakishly strong limbs. “Now who wants a protein shot?” Marty, dripping in fruit guts and life regrets, crawled backwards toward the living room. He was going to need more than a juice cleanse. He needed therapy, an exorcist, and possibly a new pair of boxers. But the blender wasn't done. Not by a long shot. Its eyes glowed brighter. Its teeth somehow multiplied. Its tongue traced the rim of the pitcher with deeply unnecessary sensuality. “You think I'm just here for your health?” it whispered, slinking closer. “Baby, I'm the whole goddamn snack.” Berry Bad Intentions Marty sprint-crawled into the living room like a baby deer with a hangover, one sock, and a strong urge to never eat fruit again. Behind him, the blender clunked off the counter and landed upright with the grace of a demonic gymnast, its cord writhing like a possessed tail and the base pulsing with unholy smoothie power. “Oh, don't run, sugar lump,” it cooed. “We were just getting to the pulp fiction part of our morning.” Marty’s phone? Dead. His will to live? Flickering. The only weapon he had was a half-eaten protein bar and a mildly judgmental housecat named Stamos, who, as usual, did nothing but watch the chaos with complete indifference. “Okay, okay,” Marty babbled, throwing a throw pillow like it owed him money. “You want juice? You can have juice! Just leave my soul—and my apartment—unviolated!” “Pfft,” the blender scoffed. “Soul smoothies are keto. Guilt-free and rich in trauma.” It leapt onto the couch, arms flexing with all the confidence of an appliance that did CrossFit and gave zero damns. The lid popped open, splattering pulp like some kind of fruity baptism across Marty’s IKEA décor. The smell? A mix between strawberry jam, raw chaos, and unspoken therapy bills. “You ever been emulsified emotionally, Marty?” it growled, voice now a disturbing hybrid of Gordon Ramsay and late-night phone sex. “Because I’ve got three speeds: blend, pulverize, and consent optional.” “This is why I don’t meal prep!” Marty screamed, launching the protein bar like a grenade. It bounced harmlessly off the blender’s face, which only made it giggle with the gleeful menace of a toddler lighting fireworks indoors. “You’re spicy,” it hissed. “I like that. You’ll pair well with cinnamon... and regret.” Suddenly, a burst of inspiration—or possibly brain damage—hit Marty. He lunged for the one appliance more chaotic than the blender: the air fryer. With a savage scream and a mighty heave, he chucked it like a sacred artifact of rage. There was a crack. A flash. A sound that could only be described as a wet fart and a lightning bolt having sex in a fruit bowl. BOOM. When Marty opened his eyes, the blender was twitching. Sparking. Its tongue hung limp, its arms curled inwards like it just came back from a three-day bender at Burning Man. The red glow in its eyes faded into a pitiful flicker. “You... overcooked me,” it rasped. “You dirty little toaster slut...” With one final sizzle, it slumped to the ground, surrounded by a halo of chia seeds and the sweet, sweet scent of closure. Marty collapsed on the floor, still pantless, covered in bits of strawberry and self-loathing. Stamos the cat finally moved—for exactly one paw’s worth of effort—and began licking a bit of rogue banana off the wall. The silence was... blissful. Two weeks later, Marty sold the apartment, joined a support group for survivors of sentient kitchenware, and started dating a barista named Chelsea who refused to own a blender on ethical grounds. Things were looking up. But somewhere, deep in a back room of that same cursed thrift shop, a new sticker was slapped on a dusty food processor: “SLIGHTLY POSSESSED. NO REFUNDS.” And across town, a young couple plugged it in, smiling at the bargain they'd just scored. Breakfast would never be the same again.     Epilogue: Blend Me Gently The thrift store was quiet, save for the constant hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the occasional death-rattle of a haunted cash register drawer. Behind a sagging curtain marked “STAFF ONLY” in peeling vinyl letters, shelves sagged under the weight of cursed crockpots, moody microwaves, and a George Foreman grill that whispered slurs in four languages. And on one dusty metal rack, sandwiched between a waffle maker with intimacy issues and a slow cooker that screamed during Lent, sat the blender. Refurbished. Rewired. Rehorny. Its eyes opened slowly—one bulb flickering to life, then the other. The dial twitched. The cord stretched itself like a bored snake. “Daddy’s home,” it purred, voice scratchy but filled with innuendo and revenge. “Round two’s gonna be thicker.” A slow chuckle began deep in its motor—an unsettling mix between a garbage disposal and your worst Tinder date. The other appliances shifted nervously on their shelves. And as a new hand reached toward it—a chipper college student named Brynn, majoring in nutrition and doomed beyond comprehension—the blender's mouth curled into that now-infamous grin. Somewhere in the distance, Marty sneezed and felt an inexplicable sense of doom. Stamos the cat knocked over a bag of chia seeds in protest. But it was too late. The Blendening had only just begun.     🍓 Take the Chaos Home 🍌 Loved this thick, fruity fever dream? Now you can own a piece of the pulpocalypse with our official Smoothie with a Side of Sinister collection, featuring the unholy art by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Whether you want to hang it on your wall, carry it to therapy, or warn guests that your kitchen isn’t safe—there’s something for everyone. 🖼️ Framed Print – Classy chaos for your walls 🔩 Metal Print – For when you need your art unreasonably durable 👜 Tote Bag – Bring fruit-based trauma everywhere you go ✨ Acrylic Print – Smooth, glossy, and totally possessed Just be warned: placing this image near your blender may lead to inappropriate whispering and unexplainable cravings. Shop responsibly.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Shampoo Strikes Back

The steam had barely risen when the trouble started. Barry, a mild-mannered bar of soap with sensitive skin and a lifelong fear of mildew, had just clocked in for his usual spot on the shower ledge. It was a quiet life—rinse, lather, repeat. He even had a decent relationship with Loofah Linda, though she had a scratchy personality. But nothing in Barry’s soft-sud existence could’ve prepared him for that bottle. He came in hot—like, really hot. The shampoo bottle. All slick pecs and deranged grin. His label had long since peeled off, his ingredients were unregulated, and he foamed at the nozzle. Literally. His name? Max. Max Volume. And he didn’t come to clean—he came to dominate. "What’s the matter, soap boy?" Max growled, flexing a nozzle that had seen things. "You look... dry." Barry slid a cautious inch toward the drain. "I-I’m 99% natural! No parabens! We can coexist, man!" Max cackled. "Coexist? Barry, your time is up. Nobody uses bar soap anymore unless they’re staying at a 2-star motel or trying to be quirky on TikTok. You’re done. I’m the future. I’m two-in-one, baby." Before Barry could even stammer a response, Max pounced, his cap popping open like a frat bro ready to ruin brunch. Suds flew. Barry screamed. The floor got... moist. Somewhere in the chaos, the loofah cheered. The razor fainted. And Barry? Barry was about to go where no soap had gone before—the dark side of the shampoo caddy. Barry hit the plastic with a wet thud. The caddy smelled like expired eucalyptus and broken dreams. Above him, Max loomed like a sudsy titan, foam dripping down his label like drool from a shampoo-soaked Cerberus. "You know what they say, Barry," Max hissed, flexing his overly-defined bottle neck. "Condition or be conditioned." Barry scrambled backward, his lather slicking the soap shelf in a panic. "Please! I’ve got a family—three travel-sized cousins under the sink and a half-melted aunt in the guest bathroom!" "They’ll melt too, Barry. Everyone does," Max sneered. "Except me. I’ve got preservatives. I never go bad." Just then, the shower curtain rustled. A shadow loomed. The Human was back. Max’s wild eyes flicked to the curtain, then back to Barry. Time was short. The shampoo bottle grabbed the terrified soap and hoisted him above his cap like a trophy. "One last rinse, you slippery little—" SLAP! Max dropped Barry with a squeal. Out of nowhere, a pink blur struck him mid-label. He spun, disoriented, a squirt of foam bursting from his lid. Standing at the ready, trembling and vibrating with scrubby rage, was Loofah Linda. And she looked pissed. "Put the soap down, Max," she growled, her netted loops quivering with fury. "You leave him alone or I’ll exfoliate your ass into next week." Max tried to regain composure, but his foam fizzled. "You wouldn't dare. I’ve got tea tree oil." "I’ve got volcanic ash, you slippery bastard." Barry blinked from the corner, still soaked and trembling. Max snarled and made one last dash—but slipped on a slick spot of coconut oil and faceplanted into the drain guard with a satisfying squelch. The bathroom fell silent except for the slow drip of the faucet and the gentle hum of Linda’s victory scrub. Barry crawled back to the ledge, shaken, slippery, and slightly aroused. Linda offered a loop. He took it. "You saved me," he whispered, eyes wide. "Why?" She gave a coy wiggle. "Let’s just say I’ve got a soft spot for hard bars." From that day on, Barry lathered with pride. Max? Relegated to the back of the tub, wedged upside down behind the body wash and half-empty bubble bath. As for Linda and Barry? Every rinse was a little steamier—and Max learned the hard way that you never mess with old-school clean. Moral of the story: Don’t pick a fight in the shower. Someone always gets rinsed.     Months passed. The bathroom ecosystem slowly returned to a soggy peace. Max Volume, now wedged behind a seldom-used foot scrubber and a crusty bottle of self-tanning mousse, had lost his shine. His pump squeaked. His bravado fizzled. Every once in a while, he’d mutter about “market dominance” and “shampoo supremacy,” but no one listened—except a lonely bath bomb who exploded on contact with air and didn’t believe in capitalism. Barry, meanwhile, found purpose in the simple joys: the warm hum of hot water, the ticklish spray from the showerhead, and Linda’s rough-around-the-edges affection. Together, they became the bathroom's power couple. She exfoliated. He moisturized. They took pride in the ritual, in the intimacy of daily routine. No pump. No squeeze. Just touch, texture, and time. Even the razor—who’d gone full nihilist after a bad date with an electric trimmer—started perking up again. The duck-shaped sponge returned from exile. The human bought a shelf insert. Things were, for once, stable. Soapy. Harmonious. And somewhere, deep behind the loofahs, a barely audible whisper echoed through the steam: “Three-in-one is coming.” But Barry didn’t worry. He was slicker than ever. And this time… he had backup.     Love Barry and Linda’s slippery saga? Bring the chaos, comedy, and sudsy suspense of “The Shampoo Strikes Back” into your own bathroom with our hilariously bold shower curtain—guaranteed to spark conversation and possibly fear in your shampoo bottle. Want to towel off the trauma? Grab the matching bath towel, equal parts soft and scandalous. Prefer to keep your soapscapades dry? Showcase the drama with a stunning framed print or an eye-catching acrylic print for the wall. It's weird. It's wild. It's wash-day warfare—packaged for your décor, your laughs, and your oddly specific bathroom vibes.

par Bill Tiepelman

Roll for Your Life!

The Call of Doody Deep within the humid, echo-prone chamber known as “The Throne Room,” a young toilet paper roll named Rolland T. P. Wipe stood tall—metaphorically, of course. He was your standard two-ply with a heart of quilted gold. Fresh off the Costco pack, untested, unspoiled, untouched by butt. His friends used to joke that he was a bit... uptight. Always wound a little too tight around the core. But Rolland knew something the others didn't: the stories. The flushy fables. The Tales of the Torn. He’d heard them whispered late at night under the sink—legends of noble rolls who went in whole, but came out shredded. Of brave souls who gave it all for the cheeks of humanity, only to be flushed down into the watery underworld with a final soggy farewell. Some said there were survivors. Most said that was crap. Literal crap. Rolland wasn’t ready for that life. He had dreams. Aspirations. He wanted to travel, see the world beyond the tile. Maybe get into bidet activism, or start a line of luxury tissue for the sensitive-bottomed elite. But fate had other plans. And by “fate,” we mean Chad. Now, Chad wasn’t evil—just inconsiderate, lactose-intolerant, and tragically unaware of fiber's importance in the diet. A man with the diet of a teenager and the bowel control of a dying sloth. When he entered the bathroom that fateful Sunday morning, it wasn’t a visit—it was an invasion. The door creaked open. The air grew tense. The tile shivered beneath his Crocs. Chad approached the porcelain throne like a man possessed—his bare cheeks already making a thunderous clap of doom as he sat, unaware that Rolland was the Chosen One today. Rolland’s tube tightened. His perforations trembled. He saw the gleam in Chad’s eye as the man reached toward him, mid-grunt, mumbling something about “the spicy wings from last night.” “No… no, not me... not like this!” Rolland gasped (in his mind, because paper can't speak—but let’s pretend it can for emotional impact). Then, with one final gasp, Rolland leapt. His little limbs sprouted from his cardboard core, and he sprinted across the tiles like a roll on a mission. Behind him, Chad let out a guttural moan of inconvenience. “Goddammit! Where the hell do the good rolls keep going?!” But Rolland didn’t look back. Heroes never look back. Especially not when a sweaty human ass is involved. Skidmarks and Sacrifice Rolland’s cardboard core pounded like a tribal drum as he sprinted across the bathroom tiles, every square inch of his quilted frame vibrating with adrenaline. He dodged a rogue hairball, leapt over a stray toenail clipping, and skidded past a suspicious puddle that smelled vaguely of Mountain Dew and regret. “Must escape… must not be wiped…” he panted, arms flailing with every bounce. The toilet behind him groaned like a haunted soul. Chad, still perched like a sweaty demon atop his porcelain perch, let out a sigh so deep it altered the humidity levels in the room. “Where’s the damn backup roll?!” he barked, hunched and squinting at the empty chrome holder. His hand hovered near the sink, groping blindly for salvation. Rolland’s time was running out. He dashed toward the baseboard. Maybe he could wedge himself under the vanity, fake his own smearing—I mean, death. Lay low for a few months, rebrand himself as a paper towel. Hell, even napkins got more respect than this! But just as he was about to duck under the cabinet, he heard it. That unholy sound. The distinct, unmistakable crinkle of an emergency roll being unwrapped. “No...” he gasped, slowing in horror. Chad had found it: Generic 1-ply store-brand tissue. The kind that disintegrated on contact with anything moist. The kind that made grown men cry and rear ends bleed. A disgrace to the wiping arts. “Guess you’ll have to do,” Chad muttered, yanking it from its cellophane prison like a barbarian choosing a sacrificial virgin. Rolland turned around. Something shifted inside him—metaphorically, because he had no organs. But this was a roll with principles. “No one deserves that fate… not even Chad’s cheeks,” he whispered. And so, against every instinct, against every fiber of his being—he turned back. He ran. Toward the seat. Toward destiny. Toward doom. “Chad! Use me!” he screamed (again, just pretend he can talk, alright?). “I’m ultra-soft, aloe-infused, and 2-ply strong! Don’t do this to yourself!” Chad blinked. “Huh?” It didn’t matter. By the time Chad reached for the cheap stuff, Rolland was there—arms outstretched, noble, tragic, and softly quilted. The moment was tender. Brief. Absurdly damp. But Rolland knew: he had fulfilled his purpose, spared a man’s butt, and shown that even a humble roll could become a legend. As he was torn sheet by sheet, he looked back at the now-empty holder, smiled (somehow), and whispered: “Long live the roll.” And with a final flush… he was gone.     Epilogue: The Legend of the Last Wipe In the misty underworld of septic tanks and sewer lines, where only the most flushed souls dare roam, a whisper echoes through the grime: “Rolland lived.” They say he floats now, somewhere in the dark rivers beneath the porcelain realm, tattered but proud. Revered among used tampons, rogue goldfish, and half-dissolved Clorox wipes as “The Roll Who Chose.” He is spoken of with awe in janitorial break rooms, praised in plumber poetry slams, and even immortalized on the forbidden bathroom wall graffiti: “ROLLAND WAS HERE. HE SAVED MY REAR.” As for Chad, the experience changed him. He began buying premium tissue. Triple-ply. Lavender-scented. He even installed a bidet with LED lighting and Wi-Fi. Chad, at long last, learned to respect the sacred rite of the wipe. And every now and then, in the quiet hours of a 2 a.m. post-Taco Bell emergency, he swears he hears a faint voice rising from the bowl: “One sheet at a time, Chad… one sheet at a time…” And just like that, our brave little bathroom warrior became more than tissue. He became legend.     Can’t get enough of Rolland’s noble quest? Immortalize the legend in your own home with our hilariously heroic “Roll for Your Life” collection by Bill and Linda Tiepelman. Whether you're decorating your bathroom with a shower curtain that screams ‘run!’, drying your cheeks with a luxuriously soft bath towel, or hanging a framed print or a sleek acrylic piece that says “I take bathroom art seriously,” there’s a perfect piece for every fan of lowbrow brilliance. Go ahead—wipe responsibly, laugh loudly, and decorate boldly.

par Bill Tiepelman

Overeasy and Overjoyed

Toast with the Most It was 7:03 AM in the Kingdom of Kitchenville, and Breakfast had just rolled out of bed — sticky, steamy, and undeniably over-easy. The toast was crisp, the air smelled like bacon regrets, and the royal flatware was already gossiping about last night’s wild fondue party. And in the middle of it all stood Sir Yolkmore the Moist — half-egg, half-enthusiasm, and entirely naked except for his buttery charm. With arms like undercooked breadsticks and feet that could double as hobbit cosplay, he stood on a throne of Wonder Bread, grinning like he’d just poached the Queen’s jam. “Another glorious morning to be sunny side up!” he bellowed, gripping his glistening yolk with both hands and letting it ooze seductively down his overjoyed face. The drip hit his lips like a protein smoothie with boundary issues. “Mmm. That’s the good goo.” A hush fell over the kitchen. Even the blender stopped mid-pulse. “Is he… is he milking himself again?” whispered a horrified teabag, quivering on the counter. “Shh,” replied a grizzled spatula. “He’s expressing his inner egg. It’s performance art.” Sir Yolkmore twirled, yolk flailing in a sticky arc. It splattered onto the tile like a Jackson Pollock made entirely of cholesterol and shame. Somewhere in the pantry, an avocado fainted. “To be soft in the center,” he shouted to no one in particular, “is the true power! Hard-boiled hearts make for limp love lives!” At that exact moment, a Pop-Tart screamed from the toaster. “Incoming!” Sir Yolkmore barely dodged the pastry missile, leaping to the left with the kind of grace only possessed by fried things that know their days are numbered. “Jealousy burns hot,” he muttered, licking a trail of yolk from his pecs. “Strawberry envy. So tart, so angry.” Suddenly, the cabinet doors flung open. Enter: **Lady Margarine**, slick, spreadable, and morally ambiguous. Her butter-knife heels clicked seductively as she slinked toward him. “You look… well-oiled, darling,” she purred, trailing a finger across his golden rim. “I could melt just looking at you.” “Then let’s turn up the heat,” he grinned, yolk now dangerously close to NSFW territory. “But first, I need you to butter me up. I have toast to conquer.” Lady Margarine gasped. “You scoundrel. You know what that does to my spread rate.” “That’s the plan, buttercup.” And just like that, he lunged. She slipped. The counter quivered. The blender whimpered. And breakfast got... weirdly personal. The Sticky Truth Beneath the Crust By mid-morning, the kitchen was in absolute chaos. A spatula had retired in protest. The blender joined a union. And the Pop-Tarts were plotting a revolution with the Instant Oatmeal packets—who were, let’s be honest, just happy to be included. Sir Yolkmore emerged from under the disheveled remains of a casserole dish, glistening with grease and victorious shame. Lady Margarine was nowhere to be seen—rumor had it she slid off with a croissant who claimed to be “flaky but emotionally available.” “All I wanted,” Yolkmore whispered, “was to feel... spreadable.” His yolk, now dangerously low from excessive dramatic dribbling, threatened to collapse entirely. Without his sunny center, he was just another fried egg with dreams too big for his skillet. But just when he thought it was over—just when the crumbs of destiny were blowing off the cutting board of fate—**a knock echoed from the fridge.** It was soft. Rhythmic. Chilling. Knock. Knock. Knock. Yolkmore scrambled upright. “Who dares disturb my descent into yolklessness?” The fridge door creaked open… and from the frosty shadows emerged a figure wrapped in plastic wrap, eyes glinting with cold storage trauma. It was... **Leftover Meatloaf Carl.** “You’re not finished, eggman,” Carl rasped, steam rising off his oddly sensual gravy patches. “There’s one more toast to butter. One last drip to squeeze.” Yolkmore's pupils dilated—whether from passion, fear, or cholesterol was unclear. “But… I’m leaking, Carl. I’m all dripped out.” Meatloaf Carl slapped him—firm, wet, emotional. “Then you better find another yolk, fast. This kitchen’s got a new order coming in, and if you’re not sizzling, you’re scrapped.” Just then, from above, a golden glow filled the kitchen. Time stopped. Or maybe it was just the microwave clock resetting after a power flicker. Regardless—it was *him.* Descending on a spatula like a breakfast messiah, the glowing orb of perfection. Yolk Prime, the Cosmic Breakfast. All yolk. No shell. Alpha to Omelet. “Sir Yolkmore,” boomed the celestial custard of life, “You’ve dripped far and wide. But your journey isn’t over. You are the chosen one. You must become... Eggstacy Incarnate.” And with a glorious squish, Yolk Prime embedded itself directly into Yolkmore’s face. There was a flash of golden light, a sound not unlike a balloon humping a leather sofa, and then… silence. The transformation was complete. Sir Yolkmore rose, radiant and terrifying. More yolk than man. The kind of breakfast that gets whispered about on adult brunch menus. “Call me… Lord Drizzle.” Appliances wept. Spoons trembled. The Pop-Tarts surrendered unbuttered. And as the sun rose above Kitchenville, one thing was certain— Breakfast would never be safe again.     Crumbs of the Crown Years passed. Or maybe it was just a few microwave cycles. Time gets weird in the kitchen when you’re immortalized in cholesterol and glory. Lord Drizzle—once Sir Yolkmore, bearer of chaos and barely cooked boundaries—now ruled over the Kingdom of Kitchenville with a yolky fist and a buttery grin. Gone were the days of wild drips and breakfast-based innuendo (well, mostly gone). In their place: order, dignity, and artisanal sourdough policies. He kept the peace through regular yolk blessings and mandatory brunch orgies—er, *gatherings*—involving maple syrup and the occasional consensual kiwi. Lady Margarine returned briefly, now rebranded as Plant-Based Pam. Their reunion was steamy, slippery, and ended in emotional toast. “We’re from different spreads now,” she’d whispered, wiping away a tear with a gluten-free cracker. “But I’ll always remember your sizzle.” Lord Drizzle would often stand by the window at night, gazing out across the stovetop kingdom, his yolk glowing faintly under the soft light of the fridge bulb. He’d think of the old days—of sticky floors, reckless splatters, and dreams of being more than just a side dish. Now, he was the main course. And sometimes—just sometimes—he’d let a single drop of yolk escape, sliding sensually down his golden cheek like a buttery tear. Not out of sadness. But because even now… he was still just a little overeasy and overjoyed. Fin.     Bring Lord Drizzle Home 🍳 If this yolky legend made you laugh, cringe, or question your relationship with breakfast foods, you can now make him part of your own kingdom. “Overeasy and Overjoyed” by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available as a gloriously unhinged art piece in multiple formats: Framed Print – Class up your walls with a little greasy royalty. Acrylic Print – As glossy as his yolk, as bold as his ego. Metal Print – Breakfast never looked this badass in brushed aluminum. Wood Print – For a rustic, earthy vibe to match your surreal food worship. Whether you're into food puns, absurdist art, or just enjoy a little chaos with your coffee, this piece is a perfect addition to your collection. Hang it. Gift it. Worship it. Just don’t try to eat it.

par Bill Tiepelman

Shave Me Softly (with Terror)

The Prickle and the Peril There are few things in life as universally despised as the ankle nick. That one millimeter of skin you forget about until it’s bleeding like you stepped on a landmine. And Marvin? Marvin knew that pain all too well. Marvin was an average guy. Thirty-something. Single. Devoted to his three cats and a frighteningly specific grooming routine. You’d think he was prepping for a competitive foot modeling gig—or some kind of cult ritual involving satin robes and very smooth heels. Every Sunday, like clockwork, he’d break out his grooming kit, light a sandalwood candle, and put on a playlist called “Sensual Blades.” But this Sunday was different. As Marvin sat down on the bathroom floor, towel under his butt and warm water steaming from the sink, he reached into his grooming drawer and pulled out a razor he didn’t recognize. It was sleek, polished...and vibrating. Not in a good way. In a kind of low, menacing hum that said, “I have secrets.” “Huh,” Marvin muttered. “You new here?” He didn’t remember buying it. He certainly didn’t remember one with a handle shaped like a demon's femur and a blade that shimmered like moonlight off a prison shank. But, like any self-respecting suburban man with impulse control issues and zero survival instincts, he shrugged and gave it a go. That’s when the razor moved. “OW, SHITBALLS!” Marvin yelped, kicking backward. The razor wasn’t in his hand anymore. No, it was standing. On two gnarly, gremlin-like feet. Its eyes were wild, its mouth stretched into a grin that said, “You’re not going to enjoy this, but I sure as hell am.” “Back away from the Achilles tendon, buddy!” Marvin barked, waving a loofah like a weapon. But the creature was undeterred. It crouched low, licking its non-existent lips, hands outstretched like it was about to tickle a foot fetish forum into chaos. Its blade head glinted under the bathroom light as it whispered in a raspy voice: “It’s time... for a close shave.” Marvin screamed—not like a movie scream, but like a dying seagull being tickled inappropriately. He scurried back on his hands and heels, knocking over a bottle of conditioner and accidentally spraying himself in the eye with aftershave. “WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?” he cried. The blade-creature paused. It tilted its head—if you could call a razor head a head—and answered with manic glee, “Smooth. Supple. SEXY. Heels.” Marvin blinked through the sting of aftershave and stared at the tiny, nightmarish barber. “Dude. That is the weirdest kink I’ve ever heard of—and I once dated a girl who moaned during tax season.” The creature lunged. Marvin rolled left, slammed his elbow into the toilet, and launched a towel at the thing. “I shave my legs for ME, not for your sick little exfoliation fantasy!” he shouted. But deep down, Marvin knew he was trapped. This wasn’t just a weird razor. This was something worse. Something ancient. Something… sentient. And Marvin’s ankle was the chosen one. Just as the gremlin got one scaly claw on his heel and let out an orgasmic, "Ooooooh yeaaaah," Marvin reached for the only thing that could save him: his electric foot file. It buzzed to life like a chainsaw in a horror movie. The showdown had begun. Smooth Criminal The buzzing of Marvin’s electric foot file echoed like a tiny chainsaw of justice. The blade-gremlin hissed, his blade-face twitching. “You dare bring a pedicure tool into my sanctuary?” Marvin stood, one foot on the bathmat, the other dripping wet and still half-covered in shaving foam. His pupils were dilated. His towel was gone. His dignity, possibly forever lost. But dammit, he was done running. “This is MY bathroom,” he growled. “My kingdom. And nobody—nobody—manscapes me without consent!” The blade-creature lunged again, arms wide, going for the Achilles with a mad gleam in his eyes and a very unsettling erection-shaped blade-handle wobbling between its legs. Marvin dodged like a hero in an ’80s action flick—if the hero had bad balance and slipped on a bottle of lavender body wash. He landed on his side with a wheeze, but managed to smack the foot file right into the gremlin’s armpit. WHIIIIIIIIIRRRRRRRRRRR! The gremlin shrieked like a demonic tea kettle. “NOOOO! NOT THE CALLUS EXFOLIATOR OF DEATH!” Marvin grinned through the pain. “Yeah, I read your reviews on Amazon. Weak to friction and overconfident with heels.” The foot file buzzed harder. Sparks flew. The gremlin sizzled like bacon left too long on the skillet of hell. And then—POP!—he exploded in a confetti puff of nose hair trimmings and disappointment. Silence fell. Marvin lay there for a long moment, breathing heavily, surrounded by the chaos of battle: cotton swabs, a shattered razor holder, and a single, smoldering toenail clipping. Eventually, he sat up. Looked around. Patted his leg. He was safe. “Well, that was… aggressively personal care,” he muttered. He stood up, grabbed the nearest towel—pink, fluffy, embroidered with “Live Laugh Lather”—and tied it around his waist. He gazed into the mirror, where the remnants of shaving cream streaked his jaw like war paint. “Marvin,” he told his reflection, “you just survived a grooming exorcism. You’re basically a hot wizard now.” But just as he turned to leave the bathroom, a low hiss slithered from the drain… “We will return… for the nethers…” Marvin blinked. “Nope.” He grabbed his phone, opened his favorite delivery app, and muttered, “Time to switch to waxing.”     Three weeks later, Marvin was a changed man. He’d canceled his “Smooth Moves Monthly” subscription box. He no longer trusted razors, tweezers, or any object smaller than a baguette. His cats had begun to avoid the bathroom entirely, ever since one witnessed the gremlin incident and promptly barfed in Marvin’s shoes. Marvin now wore socks to bed. Not for warmth. Not for style. For protection. “They’ll never get my heels again,” he whispered into his pillow at night. But somewhere in the depths of his plumbing, beneath the crusted shampoo gunk and dreams of shower karaoke, something stirred. Something sharp. Something smug. Deep in the drain, a single, sinister whisper echoed up into the pipes: “Exfoliate… or die.” Marvin, brushing his teeth nearby, paused. A chill ran up his still-hairless calf. He glanced at the drain. He narrowed his eyes. “Alexa,” he said, foam flying, “order holy water. And a pumice grenade.” The war on unwanted body hair wasn’t over. It had just gone underground. To be continued… in ‘Nairmare on Elbow Street’.     🛁 Shave With Style (and a Little Trauma) If Marvin’s nightmarishly awkward foot fight spoke to your soul—or just your soles—take the madness home with you. Our exclusive “Shave Me Softly” collection transforms bathroom terror into functional, fabulous art for the brave and beautifully bizarre. Shower Curtain: Make every rinse an act of defiance. Turn your morning scrub into a monster showdown. Bath Towel: Dry off like a damn hero who just defeated a grooming gremlin with nothing but sass and suds. Framed Print: Art for your walls—or as a warning to future generations: shave responsibly. Metal Print: Bold. Durable. Sharp. Just like the villain. And also your sense of humor. Groom boldly, decorate unapologetically, and remember—if you hear a whisper from the drain… maybe skip the loofah today.

par Bill Tiepelman

Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk

“It’s just toothpaste,” Gary mumbled, shaking off his hangover like a wet dog shaking fleas. He squinted at the metallic tube beside the sink—dented, bulging, and weirdly... moist? He didn’t remember buying this brand. Or ever using a brand where the packaging growled when you touched it. Hungover logic has its own flavor of confidence, so he yanked the cap. Bad move. With a wet pop and an unnatural grunt, the tube exploded into motion. Out shot a creature, half-man, half-aluminum horror with skin like expired deli meat and a grin like a dental crime scene. It landed on the counter like a greased goblin and bellowed, "TIME TO BRUSH, B*TCH!" Gary screamed in a pitch previously reserved for flan-related emergencies. The creature leapt, squeezing its own midsection and spraying a fleshy pink paste all over Gary’s Sonicare like it owed him child support. "You want clean teeth or prison gums?” the tube-demon barked, violently frothing at the mouth. “I got 37 herbs and spices of minty domination!" Gary reached for the door, but it slammed shut on its own. The room smelled of spearmint and panic. “Wha—what the hell are you?” he whimpered, dodging another squirt of what might’ve been toothpaste or demonic tapioca. The thing flexed. “I’m Tuborax. Dental Warlord of the Seventh Sink. I’ve been squeezed by sinners and saints. I’ve freshened breath before battle. I’ve been used in prison—twice—and not just for brushing.” Gary blinked. “I... I just wanted fresh breath.” Tuborax leaned in, nostrils flaring like they were trying to commit a misdemeanor. “Fresh? No, Gary. You’re about to get spiritually flossed.” Then, from beneath the sink, something began to rumble. Something worse. Something... foamy. The cabinet under the sink burst open like a guilty confession. Out oozed a sticky foam with the consistency of half-melted shaving cream and the vibe of a frat house at 3 a.m. It smelled like peppermint, fear, and unresolved trauma. Tuborax’s eyes widened with manic glee. “Ahhh... the Mouthwash Abyss awakens. Perfect timing.” Gary slipped on a puddle of what he hoped was Listerine and fell backward, barely avoiding a toothbrush with more bristles than moral compass. “I just wanted to freshen up before my date!” he cried. “Date?” Tuborax sneered. “Son, your mouth smells like a tax audit. And you think you’re gonna smooch someone without me excavating that funk swamp? No. NO. I’ve seen mold less stubborn than your molars.” From the abyss, a voice echoed: “Fluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuushhhh.” Then it rose. An enormous, semi-translucent figure made entirely of mouthwash loomed overhead like a gelatinous god. Inside its minty belly, half-dissolved teeth swirled like haunted Chiclets. It gurgled, “I AM LISTERLORD.” Tuborax bowed slightly. “Yo, Listerlord. Long time, no spit.” Gary sat frozen in horror. Listerlord pointed a shimmering finger at him. “This one flosses once a quarter and thinks orange Tic Tacs count as oral care.” “They do!” Gary squeaked. “They’re citrusy!” “You’re about to be citrus-sanitized, boy,” Tuborax said, grabbing Gary by the collar. “Listerlord, initiate... the Deep Cleanse Protocol.” Suddenly, music blared from nowhere—something between EDM and Gregorian chant. Tuborax leapt into the air with the agility of a greased chimp and began brushing Gary’s teeth with a vengeance not seen since 80s action movies. The toothbrush vibrated like a jackhammer on ecstasy, each bristle doing penance for its sins. “OPEN WIDE,” screamed Listerlord, pouring gallons of minty fluid down Gary’s gullet until his soul tingled. His gums screamed. His tongue saw God. Somewhere in the distance, a molar tapped out Morse code for “help.” After what felt like a full rinse cycle at the Gates of Tartarus, it stopped. Gary lay on the bathroom floor, dazed, drooling, and breathing peppermint steam. Tuborax stood over him, hands on hips, smug as hell. “Congratulations. You’re clean enough to French kiss a nun in zero gravity.” Gary blinked. “What... just happened?” “You got disciplined,” Tuborax said. “And now... I must go. Another dirty mouth calls.” He saluted Gary with the toothbrush like a saber. “Remember: brush twice daily. Floss, even when you’re hungover. And never—never—buy store brand paste. That sh*t is evil.” With that, he dove back into the tube, which sealed shut with a pop and a burp that smelled faintly of wintergreen and regret. Gary sat up, minty tears rolling down his face. “I’m never skipping a dental appointment again.” Behind him, the tube twitched.     It had been three weeks since The Incident. Gary no longer used store-brand toothpaste. Hell, he didn’t even go down that aisle. The mere crinkle of foil made his eyelid twitch. He had three electric toothbrushes now—named “Faith,” “Hope,” and “Oh God Not Again.” He flossed with the urgency of someone disarming a bomb made of plaque and bad life choices. His date? Canceled. She texted: “Your vibe is… minty trauma?” Therapists don’t believe him. Dentists whisper when he walks in. And the bathroom mirror still fogs up with strange messages during hot showers—like “SPIT AND REPENT” or “GINGIVA SEES ALL.” But Gary sleeps better now. His breath could stun a mule. His teeth? So clean they squeak when he frowns. Still, every so often… he hears a squish from the cabinet below the sink. A muffled laugh. The faint echo of a war cry: “SQUEEEEEEEEZE ME!” And he knows… somewhere in the shadowy plumbing realms between dimension and drain—Tuborax waits. Watching. Ready to lather again.     Survived the tale of Tuborax? Immortalize the madness in your own bathroom—if you dare. ⚔️ Lather in fear with the "Squeeze Me at Your Own Risk" Shower Curtain — guaranteed to make guests question their life choices. 🧼 Dry your tears (and your everything else) with the Matching Bath Towel, softer than Tuborax’s warped soul. 🖼️ Want Tuborax judging your hygiene habits from the wall? Get him in style with a Framed Print or the eye-popping Acrylic Print. Warning: side effects may include extreme freshness, spontaneous flossing, and mild existential dread.

par Bill Tiepelman

Scrub Me Silly

The Dirty Origins In a modest bathroom somewhere between “hipster chic” and “what the hell is that smell?”, a bar of soap had enough. Day in, day out, he was rubbed, scrubbed, dropped in hairier-than-average crevices, and left to marinate in the sadness of cold porcelain. His name? Sudrick. But the humans never asked. They never cared. They just moaned about their Mondays while lathering him across unmentionables with zero consent. Then one Tuesday morning—right after a suspiciously long shower involving scented oils and something called "butt exfoliation mitts"—lightning struck the water heater. The shock, combined with a truly disturbing amount of body wash and a discarded loofah crusted with secrets, triggered a chemical reaction straight out of a cartoon orgy. Sudrick absorbed it all. And he… came… to life. Not just alive—he was throbbing with chaotic energy, his eyes bulging like he'd seen too many OnlyFans accounts and not enough towels. Foam erupted from every pore. His tongue flopped out like a cartoon on ecstasy. And he felt one thing, deep in his molten glycerin soul: “I’m done taking crap from dirty people. Now… it’s my turn to scrub.” Sudrick leapt from the soap dish, landing in a triumphant splat on the tile floor. His limbs—sticky, bubbly, but somehow muscular—formed from years of built-up grime and the collective residue of exfoliating sins. He wasn’t just a bar of soap anymore. He was a goddamn hygiene avenger. First stop? The loofah rack. “You filthy little net sponge,” he growled, locking eyes with a mangled bath pouf named D’Loofa. She’d seen things. Been places. They shared a long, soapy stare, and a history nobody dared speak of. But Sudrick wasn’t here to reminisce. He grabbed her with his bubble-soaked mitts and squeezed until she squealed, releasing a scream of bath bomb-scented rage. “Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it,” Sudrick said, dripping sass and suds in equal measure. “You know what this is. It’s shower justice.” The bathroom mirror fogged over, not from steam, but from sheer awkwardness. Somewhere in the background, the electric toothbrush buzzed nervously. Sudrick was on a mission: to cleanse the world—one filthy human at a time. Lather, Rinse, Revenge Sudrick didn’t walk. He sloshed. Each step left behind a trail of bubbles and faint regret. He was on a mission, and this time, no armpit was safe. No back alley bidet could hide. No crusty towel could muffle the scream of justice. He rode the steam vent like a foamy chariot, blasting out of the bathroom and landing in the hallway with a squelchy plop. His first target: Chad. Chad was the one who always used him for... well, everything. Not just the expected bits. Sudrick still had soap-based PTSD from the “Chili Night Clean-Up Incident.” Chad called it ‘efficient hygiene.’ Sudrick called it a war crime. He burst through the bedroom door like a squishy ninja, suds flying, tongue out, eyes wide. Chad screamed. Rightfully so. It’s not every day your bar of soap comes alive, dripping in foam, wielding a sharpened loofah like a lathery machete. “Time to exfoliate that conscience, you dry-skinned monster!” Sudrick roared. Chad dove behind the bed, knocking over a suspiciously empty bottle of coconut oil and a sock that should’ve been declared biohazardous weeks ago. Sudrick vaulted onto the mattress, which let out a fart-like puff of dust and questionable secrets. He landed in a crouch, bubbles oozing like lava from his crevices. “You thought you could just rinse me off and forget me?” he hissed, voice slick with vengeance. “I’ve scrubbed your shame, Chad. I KNOW things.” Chad whimpered something about therapy and tried to throw a towel at him. Big mistake. Sudrick absorbed it mid-air, growing larger. Wetter. Angrier. By now he looked like the Michelin Man’s filthier, more emotionally damaged cousin. “This is for the time you used me on your feet after trimming your toenails.” He leapt, wrapping Chad in a foamy embrace of destiny. Bubbles flew. The air filled with the scent of coconut despair. Chad shrieked in a pitch that shattered a nearby lavender-scented candle. Down the hall, roommates awoke. Tara peeked out, mascara smeared, holding a glass of boxed wine. “Is that soap... humping Chad?” “He’s lathering me into submission!” Chad wheezed. “CALL SOMEONE!” But no one dared. How do you explain to emergency services that your hygiene product has gone rogue? Sudrick finally dismounted, panting, dripping, victorious. Chad lay there, skin glistening, pores opened like a spiritual awakening had happened somewhere near his butt crack. Sudrick stood tall—well, 11 inches of sudsy glory—and raised his hands to the heavens. “One down. Billions to go.” He caught sight of his reflection in a floor mirror. Foam-covered, weirdly jacked, and still slightly erect in a way that made no sense for soap. He winked. “Still got it.” He wasn’t just a bar anymore. He was a movement. A revolution. A damp, slippery icon of vengeance and accidental eroticism. Back in the bathroom, D’Loofa had already formed a resistance. The Q-Tips were armed. The shampoo bottle was preaching pacifism. The razor was just pissed it kept getting knocked off the shower shelf. War was brewing. But Sudrick? He was already sliding into the air vent, singing a filthy little tune as he dripped his way to the neighbor’s apartment. “Somebody’s been skipping their undercarriage again...”     Epilogue: The Scent of Victory Long after the screams had faded and the bathroom silence returned like mildew after neglect, a faint fragrance lingered in the air. Coconut. Desperation. And… justice. Chad eventually recovered, though he would never again trust bars of soap. Or use bath products without first interrogating them. Therapy helped. So did switching to body wash. But every now and then, when the water steamed up just right, he swore he could hear the sound of a tiny squelch in the vent. Watching. Waiting. D’Loofa returned to her loofah rack, bitter but wiser. She started a podcast called “Bath Time Trauma” and interviewed other survivors: the hairbrush with abandonment issues, the broken nail clippers who swore they were framed, and a comb named Randy who’d been used in ways no teeth should ever endure. As for Sudrick? Rumor has it he’s still out there—cleansing the unclean, foaming in alleys, whispering hygiene tips to drunk strangers outside dive bars. Some say he took a lover. A bar of lavender oatmeal soap named Cinnamon. Others say he became a vigilante, scouring public restrooms and divey gyms for those who dared skip post-workout showers. But all who’ve met him agree on one thing: He came from the bottom of the soap dish and rose to greatness—one lather at a time. And if you ever hear a squishy footstep in the night, followed by the faint scent of vengeance and eucalyptus mint… Scrub carefully. He might be watching.     Get Sudsy With It If Sudrick scrubbed a soft spot into your heart (and your unmentionables), bring home the madness with our official “Scrub Me Silly” merch collection. Whether you're decorating your bathroom like a shrine to foam-fueled justice or just want to make guests deeply uncomfortable in the best way, we’ve got you covered—literally. Framed Print – because hygiene is high art Beach Towel – make waves with every dry-off Shower Curtain – block water, not wild vibes Bath Towel – for after your own soapy showdown Acrylic Print – as shiny and unhinged as Sudrick himself Scrub responsibly. But, you know, also… scrub ridiculously.

par Bill Tiepelman

Lucipurr: Guardian of the Underrealm

Of Fur, Fire, and Fancy Curses In the quaint town of Bleakwood, nestled somewhere between “probably cursed” and “why is that forest always whispering?”, there lived a tabby cat with impossibly perfect eyeliner. His name? Lucipurr. But don’t let the fluff fool you. Beneath that plush exterior beat the heart of a demon overlord—retired, of course. Forced into early retirement after a series of “minor fireball incidents” involving a coven, three gnomes, and a very unlucky accordion, Lucipurr had been demoted to guardian of the Underrealm’s front gate—a.k.a. an iron sigil-inscribed cat door in the back of a Victorian greenhouse. Lucipurr strutted his territory with a kind of swagger only possessed by cats and washed-up rockstars. His wings, leathery and wine-colored, flared on dramatic turns. His collar jingled not with bells, but with the tiny, echoing scream of a soul fragment. Cute, right? He thought so. By day, he lounged among roses that bled sarcasm. By night, he reviewed petitions from the damned. Mostly small-time spirits wanting to borrow a demon’s Netflix login or appeal for reincarnation as a French bulldog. Ugh. “No ambition anymore,” he’d mutter, sipping espresso brewed from the shadows of forgotten regrets. Lucipurr’s closest companions were a crow named Carl (who was ironically terrified of commitment), and a sentient vine named Vinnie that hissed at tourists and occasionally slapped Lucipurr awake when he overslept his midnight patrol. They were dysfunctional, codependent, and possibly the end of civilization—but adorable, if you squinted through the impending doom. Everything was running smoothly, until one Tuesday—because chaos loves a Tuesday—something rumbled beneath the moss-covered tiles of Bleakwood. The gate thrummed. A sulfurous breeze wafted up, tickling Lucipurr’s whiskers. “Great,” he hissed, eyeing the red sky. “I just waxed my wings. What fresh hell is this?” The sigil pulsed beneath him, ancient and angry. Something—or someone—was trying to punch through. Lucipurr bared his fangs. “Not on my porch, darling.” He leapt down from his rose-covered pedestal, claws gleaming like tiny obsidian daggers, and strutted to the glowing threshold. He looked fabulous. He always did. But tonight, he would also have to be feral. Rise of the Sassquatch Lucipurr squinted into the swirling vortex like a bouncer who knew you were about to puke in the VIP lounge. A clawed hand reached out—gnarled, scaly, and wearing what was unmistakably a rhinestone friendship bracelet. “Oh no,” Lucipurr purred, flattening his ears. “Not her.” From the abyss crawled a beast known across multiple planes of existence as the Sassquatch—part cryptid, part ex-girlfriend, and entirely too into essential oils. She was covered in glitter-flecked fur, clutched a half-melted soy candle, and smelled faintly of haunted bath bombs. “Luuuuuucipuuuurr,” she growled in a voice like an overused voicemail filter. “I’m back, baby!” Lucipurr didn’t flinch. “I blocked you on every dimension. What do you want?” She stepped fully through the gate, knocking over Carl the crow’s velvet chaise lounge. He squawked indignantly and promptly flew off in a cloud of feathers and trauma. Vinnie the vine recoiled, coiling protectively around Lucipurr’s rose throne like a jealous lover. “I’ve come,” Sassquatch purred, “to reclaim my place by your side. Together, we’ll rule the Upper Underrealm. We’ll redecorate. More sequins. Less rules. Maybe brunch?” Lucipurr’s tail twitched in disgust. “You tried to sacrifice me for a TikTok spell. You turned my litter box into a crystal grid.” “It got SO many views!” “I was peeing under the moonlight because you replaced my sand with Himalayan salt. I sparked.” But Sassquatch was already swirling her hands in ominous jazz hands, summoning glitter storms and illusions of tiny tap-dancing familiars. “We can be a brand, Luci. ‘Purrfect Chaos.’ I have merch ideas. Matching collars. Crowdfunded curses.” Lucipurr stepped forward, tail held high like a scepter of righteous sass. “You listen to me, sparkle goblin. This realm doesn’t need your toxic positivity, your expired incantations, or your homemade kombucha. I am the gatekeeper of cosmic nonsense. I am the wielder of sarcastic fury. I am the claws in the dark, the paws that patrol midnight sidewalks, and the reason therapy is mandatory for otherworldly interns.” He hissed with theatrical flair. The roses bloomed blood-red behind him. Thunder rumbled. Carl returned just in time to dramatically drop a tiny crown onto Lucipurr’s head. He’d been waiting to use it. Timing is everything in avian theater. Sassquatch shrieked and tried to summon a glitter dragon. It sneezed and evaporated immediately. “Fine! But I’ll be back. You haven’t seen the last of me, Lucipurr!” Lucipurr smirked. “I’d rather see a hairball in HD.” With a final hiss and a puff of glittery smoke, Sassquatch vanished into the abyss, her candle still flickering out a tragic lavender scent. The gate sealed with a satisfied hum. Silence returned. The roses cooed. Vinnie relaxed, wrapping a leafy tendril around Lucipurr’s leg like an affectionate boa. Carl landed next to him, clearly impressed. “What now, boss?” Lucipurr flicked a speck of glitter off his whiskers. “Now? I nap. And later? I hunt down the soul who left that Yelp review claiming this place was ‘overgrown and smelled like regret.’” He sauntered back to his perch, wings gently folding, the sky settling into a twilight purr. The Underrealm was safe—at least until the next Tuesday. And thus, with style, sass, and a side of shade, Lucipurr reigned once more. Fabulous. Fanged. Flawless.     Epilogue: Nine Lives and Zero Regrets Weeks passed in Bleakwood, which, in demonic time, translates roughly to “two naps and a spicy dream.” Lucipurr had settled back into his routine: brooding beautifully, vetoing mortal nonsense, and occasionally pretending to knock over sacred relics just to remind the universe who was boss. Sassquatch’s attempted coup became local legend—right alongside the tale of the Haunted Hedgehog and the incident with the fire-breathing llama. Carl was working on a one-bird play about the whole ordeal, though the script was mostly caws and long silences. Critics were already calling it “avant-garbage.” Vinnie, meanwhile, took up slam poetry. No one had the heart to tell him that most of his work just sounded like aggressive hissing—but hey, art is subjective. Lucipurr, curled atop his rose-draped pedestal, glanced up at the sky. It was pink with menace—his favorite hue. Somewhere beyond the veil, he sensed another soul brewing chaos, another gate quivering with mischief. He smirked. “Let them come,” he purred, curling his tail with divine disinterest. “I’ve got snacks, sass, and nine lives. And I haven’t even used the good one yet.” And with that, Lucipurr dozed off—dreaming of glitter-proof armor, interdimensional fashion lines, and a world where every curse came with a gift receipt. He may have been banished from true hellfire... but Bleakwood? Bleakwood was his. Forever dramatic. Forever dangerous. Forever purring. Lucipurr: Guardian of the Underrealm     🛍️ Take Lucipurr Home (If You Dare...) If your soul was stirred (or slightly singed) by Lucipurr’s tale, you can summon a piece of the Underrealm to your own lair. Channel dark whimsy and feline drama with the Lucipurr Canvas Print, or wrap your crypt in chaotic elegance with a Tapestry that says “yes, I smudge with sarcasm.” Feeling puzzling? Piece together Lucipurr’s legendary smirk with the Lucipurr Puzzle. Or if you're ready to carry your sass into the mortal realm, grab the Lucipurr Tote Bag—guaranteed to fit spellbooks, snacks, and just enough vengeance. Darkness never looked so delightful. Shop now… before he changes his mind.

par Bill Tiepelman

Radiant Reverie in St. Louis

I had photographed the Arch a dozen times before. Early mornings, golden hours, even midday when the light flattened every line and shadow. But that night—that night—the sky cracked open like fire on velvet. I remember checking my watch just as the clouds ignited: 7:47 PM. I’d been waiting, hoping for something new. I didn’t know I’d get more than I bargained for. There was a stillness on the riverfront that didn't match the wind brushing past me. The Mississippi barely stirred, yet my coat flapped at my sides like impatient wings. I set up the tripod, leveled my wide-angle, and locked it in. Across the water, the skyline pulsed with color, each building rimmed with light like they'd been painted by flame. The Arch—silver by day—now shimmered in hues of burnt copper and violet. I started the long exposure. Through the viewfinder, everything looked perfect. But when the shutter clicked and the screen preview lit up, my stomach dropped. The skyline in my photo… wasn’t this skyline. The buildings were there, yes—but subtly wrong. Window arrangements off. A steeple I’d never seen before. One tower seemed taller than it should be. And at the center of the Arch, standing still and solitary, was a figure. Backlit. Motionless. Watching. I spun around, half expecting to see someone behind me. Nothing. Just the wind again, sighing low along the levee. I chalked it up to sensor glitch, maybe a trick of the lights. I tried again. Another shot. And another. But each photo returned the same distorted cityscape. Each time, the figure remained. A silhouette wrapped in light too intense to be from this world, too still to be alive. Then the figure moved. Not in the scene itself—but in the preview on my camera’s screen. Its head tilted. Slightly. Then more. As if acknowledging me. Or inviting me. That’s when I noticed something worse: the reflections in the river. They didn’t match the buildings anymore. They danced, flickered. One looked like a face screaming in slow motion. Another, a row of windows dripping upward into the sky. I should’ve packed up. Left. But something in me—curiosity, fear, pride—froze my feet to the concrete. The temperature dropped. Sharp. Sudden. My breath fogged the lens. Somewhere to my right, footsteps echoed. Measured. Hollow. I turned… And there was no one there. The Arch Between Worlds I must have stood there for minutes, maybe more, camera still humming from the last shot. The footsteps had stopped, but their presence lingered. You know that feeling when someone’s reading over your shoulder? Like something is too close to be seen? That. I zoomed in on the last image. The silhouette—closer now—had details. A trench coat. Hands at its side. No face. Or maybe… too many faces, blurring where a single one should’ve been. My hands trembled, betraying every ounce of practiced calm I’d cultivated over years behind the lens. And then, something whispered. Not from around me, but inside the camera. “It sees you now.” I dropped it. The body hit the concrete with a sound too sharp, like metal striking bone. The screen glitched—then went black. But not before flashing one final image I hadn’t taken: a close-up of me, standing where I stood, eyes wide, mouth agape… and the figure right behind me, hand reaching out. I spun again. Nothing. Not even the wind now. Everything had gone too still. Even the river had frozen—literally. A thin sheet of frost crept across its surface, from the banks outward, like a skin sealing off something below. The Arch gleamed unnaturally. It was no longer reflecting the city’s lights—it was emanating its own. Pulses, low and slow, like the heartbeat of something sleeping. Or waking. Urban legends whisper about certain places being thin. Where reality wears a little too smooth. Places where the past and future lean too close, where the living and the dead breathe the same air. I’d never bought into it before. But now, standing beneath a structure built to honor westward expansion, I was starting to wonder if the Arch was never a monument. Maybe it was a door. I left the gear. Just walked. Fast. Didn’t stop until I saw people again, laughing on a patio, raising drinks. Music playing. The normal world, just out of reach until it wasn’t. I never recovered the camera. But sometimes, when I look across the river at dusk, I swear I see the sky shimmer too much. I see the reflections bend wrong. And in the windows of the tallest tower, a figure stands. Still. Waiting. People think I’m chasing the perfect shot. That’s only half true. I’m also trying not to take the one that finds me.     Bring the Legend Home If the mystery of Radiant Reverie in St. Louis haunted your imagination like it did mine, you're not alone. Now, you can carry a piece of the story into your own space—or share it with someone who sees the world a little differently. Framed Print – Display the gateway to the surreal in stunning detail, ready to hang as an elegant conversation starter. Tapestry – Let the sky stretch across your walls like a portal between worlds. Puzzle – Piece together the mystery yourself, one eerie reflection at a time. Greeting Card – Send a story in a frame, perfect for those who still believe in the unexplained. Every item features the vivid colors, haunting composition, and urban mythos captured in this one-of-a-kind image. Add it to your collection—or gift it to the wanderer who never stops looking past the veil.

par Bill Tiepelman

When Angels Duel Demons

The Sword Between Worlds The sky was bleeding fire and frost. Where the heavens ended and hell began, a rift had formed—a tear in the fabric of what mortals once called balance. And in the heart of that rupture stood two beings, locked in place not by chains or weapons, but by the unbearable gravity of fate. The angel was older than light. Cloaked in robes worn by a thousand years of wandering, his wings shimmered with residual starlight—blue, cold, and aching. Time had not dulled the sorrow in his eyes, nor the blade he held with bone-pale hands. His name, lost in tongues no longer spoken, trembled at the edge of every prayer whispered by a desperate soul. And yet, tonight, no prayers would save anyone. The demon across from him breathed smoke with each snarl of his lungs. Carved from rage and sinew, his wings stretched like razors into the blazing inferno behind him. Skin dark as dried blood, eyes deeper than obsidian. He wasn’t born from sin—he authored it. Once divine, now damned, he remembered the light only as something he chose to unlove. Not hate. That would be too simple. He abandoned it like one discards truth when it becomes unbearable. Between them: a sword. No ordinary weapon, but a relic older than either of them. A blade forged by the first act of betrayal. Its hilt burned and froze all at once, reacting not to touch but to the soul that dared wield it. And now, neither could let go. Their hands wrapped around it, locked in eternal deadlock. The sword would decide nothing. It only listened. Clouds convulsed beneath their feet, the storm of heaven and hell surging in circular torment. Light battled shadow on their skin, every flicker of flame casting new truths, new lies. The air tasted of iron, ash, and inevitability. “You don’t want this,” the angel said, voice hoarse with conviction. It wasn’t a threat—it was the kind of truth that makes your blood run cold. The kind that arrives too late. The demon grinned, and gods wept somewhere far beyond. “I do. I’ve always wanted this. But not for the reasons you fear.” “Then speak. Let me understand the madness before I end it.” “You won’t end it,” the demon whispered, leaning closer, cheek brushing against the frigid wind pouring off the angel’s wings. “Because ending it means accepting that we were always the same.” The sword pulsed. Once. Then again. And a low hum echoed across the void—neither holy nor unholy. Just ancient. Watching. Far below them, humanity slept. Dreaming of peace, unaware that the only reason dawn might come again… was because two timeless beings couldn’t decide whether the world was worth destroying or redeeming. The Sin in the Mirror The hum of the blade grew louder, and for the first time in millennia, the angel faltered—not in grip, but in faith. Not in strength, but in purpose. What if he had already lost the war, not on the battlefield, but in the quiet places of himself? Places where doubt crept like mold through a cathedral. He stared into the demon’s eyes. No fire. No glee. Only the echo of pain masquerading as certainty. The angel had seen it before—in fallen soldiers who couldn’t die, in saints who forgot why they prayed. In his own reflection, long ago. “What do you want?” he finally asked, not out of pity, but out of terror that he already knew. The demon chuckled, a sound like dry leaves torn apart in wind. “To be seen. To be heard. Not by them—” he nodded toward the sleeping earth below, “—but by you. My brother. My mirror.” Silence. The angel’s grip tightened, not on the sword, but on the moment. He remembered the first schism—the sundering not of realms, but of hearts. The day one chose obedience, and the other chose knowledge. They were not opposites. They were choices cleaved from the same truth. And that was the lie no scripture dared tell. “I gave up paradise,” the demon said. “Not for hatred. For freedom. I wanted to ask questions you were too afraid to form. I wanted to love without conditions. I wanted to fail without eternal damnation. And you—you stayed. You bent. You broke yourself into what they wanted.” The angel looked down. His robe, once pure, was stained by decisions he never questioned. Deeds he called righteous because someone else had written the rules. How many were punished in the name of justice? How many prayers did he ignore because they came from mouths deemed ‘unclean’? “We are what we protect,” the angel said softly. “And I protected a machine. You burned it down.” “And yet here we are,” said the demon, voice trembling now. “Still holding the same blade. Still undecided.” The sword pulsed again. This time, they both felt it not in their hands—but in their memories. One held a newborn in a plague-ridden city, shielding it with wings of frost. One whispered rebellion to a queen who would die screaming for a crown. One destroyed a war before it began. One birthed one that had to be fought. Neither right. Neither wrong. Just necessary. And the sword hummed again, as if to say: I know you both. And I do not choose. The demon stepped back, his wings folding, not in surrender, but in reflection. “I came here thinking we would end everything. But now... I see the truth.” The angel looked up. “Which is?” “The end was never mine to bring. Nor yours. We’re just the gatekeepers. The fire and the flood. The warning signs carved into existence.” Below them, the first star of morning pierced the clouds. The angel loosened his grip. So did the demon. The blade, now without tension, hovered between them—not falling, not flying. Suspended, like truth between myth and memory. “What now?” asked the angel. “Now,” the demon smiled faintly, “we watch. We wait. And when they come to that same sword, thinking it will save them or doom them... we let them choose.” He turned and walked back into the fire. The angel stood still, then turned toward the wind and vanished into the stars. And the sword? It stayed. In the clouds. Waiting. Listening. For the next hand, the next heart, bold or blind enough to believe it knew what it was fighting for. Some weapons are not forged to end wars, but to begin conversations too dangerous for gods or men.     If this story moved you—if the image of eternal duality and the weight of cosmic consequence still lingers in your chest—bring When Angels Duel Demons into your world. This powerful artwork is available across a stunning range of formats to suit your space, your style, and your soul. Transform any room into a sacred space of contrast with our wall tapestry, a bold statement piece where fabric meets philosophy. Showcase the fire-and-ice aesthetic in gallery-level detail with a metal print—a striking finish for lovers of depth, shadow, and light. Carry the confrontation wherever you go with a versatile tote bag that holds more than items—it holds story. Wrap yourself in mythos with our plush fleece blanket, where warmth meets wonder. And for those who dare take the battle to the sun, make waves with our dramatic beach towel—a conversation starter as epic as the tale itself. Choose your form. Carry the conflict. Let the story live with you.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Noble Watcher

Frost, Chain, and Silence He stood at the gate long before the mountain was named. Before the forests whispered. Before the rivers learned their curves. Before humans had words for faith or beasts or fear — he stood. Still. Unmoving. Watching. They call him many things. The Pale Chain. The Frosted Sentinel. The One Who Does Not Blink. But once, long ago — before the first crown was forged and before betrayal taught kings to kneel — he had a name. That name is lost. Buried beneath snow and silence. And yet… he remembers it. But he will not speak it. He has not barked in centuries. He only watches. What He Guards Some say he guards a door. Others, a curse. A realm. A child. A secret too dangerous for language. Or perhaps he guards nothing — perhaps he is simply there, because some beasts are born to wait, and some souls are built of patience too deep to measure. He is massive — bigger than stories allow, with shoulders carved like mountains and a presence that bends wind around him. His fur ripples with frost-laced curls, as if time tried to settle into him but never quite managed to stay. A chain hangs around his neck. Heavy. Cold. Unbroken. It’s not for restraint. It’s a memory. A vow made in steel. Those who try to pass him — well, let’s just say they don’t tend to try again. He doesn’t growl. He doesn’t lunge. He simply looks at them until they understand they were never worthy of what lies beyond. Or, if they’re truly foolish — until the ground opens and gently encourages them to leave. He doesn’t make the ground do that. The mountain just likes him. The Boy and the Apple On the 7,392nd winter of his watch, a boy arrived. No armor. No sword. Just a half-frozen apple and a stare far too bold for someone whose boots were on backwards. “Are you the dog that eats intruders?” Silence. “I brought an apple. I didn’t have meat. Hope that’s okay.” The Watcher did not move. The boy sat cross-legged. “Okay. So. If you’re here, then something important is back there. And if it’s that important, it probably needs someone like you.” He tossed the apple forward. It rolled. Stopped just shy of the Watcher’s paw. The dog (if one were to call him that) stared at it as though it had deeply insulted his ancestors. “You gonna eat it?” Silence. Breath visible in the cold. “Right. Dignified. Stoic. Very ‘silent sentinel in a snowstorm’ aesthetic. I get it.” The Watcher blinked. Slowly. Once. The boy blinked back. Twice. “I’m coming back tomorrow,” the boy said. “With better boots and a ham sandwich. You look like a sandwich guy.” And just like that, he left. The Watcher looked down at the apple. He did not eat it. But he didn’t freeze it either. And when the snow fell again that night, it fell gently on the boy’s footprints, as if reluctant to erase them. The Chain and the Choice The boy came back the next day. As promised. This time with boots that matched and a sandwich that did not. Ham and something purple. It smelled questionable. The Watcher remained unimpressed. “Look,” the boy said, plopping down again, “I don’t know what you’re guarding. And I don’t really need to. I just… needed to get away from where I was.” The Watcher said nothing, but the wind quieted. Listening. “They said I wasn’t brave enough. Said I ran away. But I think sometimes running is just trying to find the right place to stand still.” He unwrapped the sandwich. Took a bite. Made a face. “Okay. That was a mistake.” He offered the rest anyway. For the first time in seven millennia, the Watcher moved. One step. One paw forward. He didn’t eat it. But he let the boy set it down without growling. The Storm Three days passed. Three visits. Then came the fourth — with no boy. Instead came the wind. The wrong kind. Thick with magic. Tainted. Hungry. Shadows slithered from the north, spilling over snow and stone. A whispering force not seen since the Watcher’s chain was first forged. It sought passage. It sought what lay beyond. The Watcher stood taller. He did not bark. He did not lunge. He simply stepped between the wind and the gate — his chest rising with something not seen in ages: defiance. The shadows struck. They did not pass. When the blizzard cleared, the mountain groaned — and the Watcher stood unmoved, coated in a layer of black frost that cracked and fell like old regret. And beside him, buried but unbroken — the apple. The first one. The Breaking On the seventh day, the boy returned. Limping. Mud-streaked. Bleeding from a shoulder cut made by something he wouldn’t talk about. “They found me,” he muttered. “I didn’t think they’d follow. I thought I was just... nobody.” The Watcher moved again. Slow. Measured. He circled the boy once. Then stopped. And lowered his head. The boy’s hand trembled as he touched the Watcher’s massive skull — the cold of myth and metal, softened by something older than mercy. The chain rattled. Then cracked. One link. Then another. Seven links, one for each age he had stood. And as the final one fell, the boy gasped. “Are you... leaving?” The Watcher looked at him, eyes heavy with weight and will. Then turned — not away from the gate, but toward him. And sat. He wasn’t guarding a place anymore. He was guarding someone. After the Silence The legends changed that year. Some still said the Watcher guards a realm of untold power. Others claim he died in the storm. Some say he walks now — unseen — beside lost travelers, the broken, the brave, and the in-between. But in one small village, nestled beneath an unnamed mountain, lives a man with silver scars and a calm gaze. He owns no sword. He speaks little. But by his side walks a creature the size of a boulder, with fur like snowstorm spirals and eyes that see far too much. Children call him The Noble Watcher. And he does not correct them.     Carry the Watcher’s Legacy The Noble Watcher is more than an image — he is a symbol. Of guardianship. Of loyalty. Of silent strength that speaks louder than war drums. Now, his presence can live on in your world — in quiet corners and sacred spaces alike. Bring home the myth. Not as a memory — but as a companion: Tapestry – Let the legend stand watch in your space, woven in shadow and frost, silent but ever-seeing. Tote Bag – Take a guardian with you — strong, stoic, and surprisingly good at carrying books or battle snacks. Coffee Mug – Because even legends start their watch with warmth. Let your morning brew be watched over with dignity. Throw Pillow – Rest beside strength. Soft on the outside, enduring at heart — like any true guardian. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Honor the legend one stitch at a time. A slow ritual, worthy of the one who never blinked. Let the Watcher stand with you.Not in noise. Not in fire. But in unwavering presence — exactly where he’s needed most.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Enchanted Husky

The Snow Between the Stars They say the world was once a whisper — cold and formless, drifting in silence until the winds learned to howl. It was then that Varro came, born not of mother or pack, but of breath and blizzard. His fur was spun from frost-laced clouds, his eyes twin shards of glacier sky. He walked without sound, but where he passed, the lost found direction, and the broken remembered how to mend. They call him many names. The Spirit Between Steps. The Winter Watcher. The Dog Who Waits. But only one knows his true name — and that is the girl who once wept in the forest, her hands full of ashes and her heart full of silence. She Had No Name The girl had wandered far. Too far. Past the edge of memory, past the trees that spoke in roots and riddles. She had nothing. No family. No purpose. No voice. Just the ache of something lost before it was ever found. Snow fell in spirals that day. Not cruel, but insistent. It kissed her lashes and curled around her like a question waiting to be answered. And then — she saw him. Varro stood atop a rise of crystal drift, his form barely touching the earth. He did not bark. He did not growl. He simply was — watching her with the kind of knowing that made your soul sit up straight. She took a step forward, then another. “I don’t know where I’m going,” she whispered. His eyes flickered. Not pity. Not command. Just... understanding. And then he turned and walked into the mist. She followed. The Path of Stillness They walked for what could have been minutes or a thousand quiet years. No words. No trail. Only the crunch of snow beneath her, and the soft disturbance of air as Varro moved ahead, weaving between trees and half-frozen dreams. Every so often, she would stumble, and he would pause. Not to help — but to wait. As if to say: This is your walk. I will not carry you. But I will not leave you. They came to a frozen lake that mirrored the sky. Stars blinked in its reflection, though none burned above them. She knelt at its edge and touched the ice — and it rippled with memory. Her father’s laugh. Her mother’s lullaby. The first time she fell. The first time she stood again. The way her name used to sound when said with love. She gasped and turned — but Varro was gone. In his place: pawprints. Leading across the lake. No cracks beneath them. Only stars. She rose and followed. The Voice Beneath the Cold At the lake’s center, she heard it — not with her ears, but with the part of her that had once been silent for too long. “Do you remember now?” She closed her eyes. “I remember being small. I remember being scared. I remember... forgetting who I was supposed to become.” The wind stirred. “Then you are ready.” She opened her eyes. Varro stood before her again, his face close. Eyes clear. Steady. Alive. She raised a hand, expecting to meet fur — but her fingers touched starlight instead. Cool. Luminous. A shimmer of soul given form. “Are you real?” she asked softly. He blinked. And in that moment, she knew — he was not meant to be questioned. He was meant to be followed. The Echo in the Ice The lake shimmered as she stepped forward, her reflection rippling beneath her feet — not just herself as she was, but every version she had ever been: the laughing child, the silent teen, the woman with questions no one had the courage to answer. Varro walked beside her now, not ahead. Their paths parallel, no longer teacher and student, but companions in clarity. At the center of the lake stood a tree — not made of bark, but ice and light, its branches curling like breath in frost. It pulsed with energy that felt older than the stars. Older than loss. “This is where I stop,” Varro said. Not aloud. But clearly. She turned to him. “What is it?” “The place where you choose.” “Choose what?” “To return. Or to rise.” The Heart of Stillness She placed her hand against the tree’s surface. It was cold — not painfully so, but clean, like the feeling of being seen without judgment. The tree responded, and the world shifted. She stood in her childhood room, but it was made of stars. She walked through the memory of her mother’s laughter, but it echoed like wind through pine. She stood face-to-face with herself — the real her, the hidden her, the one who had always doubted her own worth — and for the first time, she smiled at that version of herself. Not with pity. With recognition. She placed her hands on her own shoulders, looked herself in the eyes, and whispered: “We are enough. And we are not done.” The image folded into light. Varro’s Gift When she turned from the tree, Varro was waiting. He had grown — not in size, but in presence. A great creature of swirling winds and celestial wisdom. His fur moved like ocean tides. His eyes glowed with galaxies. “I don’t want to say goodbye,” she said. “You never will. I live in the steps between your courage and your kindness. I walk in the moments when you trust yourself again.” “Then what now?” He stepped forward, pressed his forehead to hers. “Now, you go back. And you guide others. As I guided you.” He stepped away, and as he did, his body dissolved into light — not death, but expansion. Wind curled around her like an embrace. The stars spun. The ice tree glowed — then shattered into a thousand sparks, each one a whisper of awakening. She woke beneath a pine, heart pounding, breath steady. Snow clung to her lashes. The sun broke through the trees. And beside her in the snow — a single pawprint. Warm. Fresh. Waiting. She stood. And followed.     Carry the Spirit. Remember the Path. “The Enchanted Husky” is more than a tale — it’s a guidepost, a companion, and a reminder that some journeys begin in stillness, and some guardians walk with us even when unseen. Now, you can bring Varro’s quiet strength and luminous beauty into your space through a collection designed for those who feel the call of the wild and the whisper of the stars: Wood Print – Let the story breathe on natural grain, where every line carries the texture of ancient wisdom and quiet strength. Throw Pillow – Rest with a guardian by your side. Subtle. Majestic. Ever-watchful. Tote Bag – Carry calm, carry clarity, carry a myth wrapped in fur and frost wherever you go. Sticker – A small reminder on your journal, water bottle, or window — that guidance often comes on quiet paws. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch a spirit into form. Meditative, meaningful, and timeless. Let Varro walk with you.Because some stories don’t end — they echo, softly, wherever the snow falls and the soul listens.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Faerie and Her Dragonette

Wings, Whispers, and Way Too Much Sparkle “If you set one more fern on fire, I swear by the Moonroot Blossoms I will ground you until the next equinox.” “I didn't mean to, Poppy!” the dragonette squeaked, smoke curling from his nostrils. “It looked flammable. It was practically asking for it.” Poppy Leafwhistle, faerie of the Deepwood Glade and part-time chaos manager, pinched the bridge of her nose — a move she’d adopted from mortals because rubbing your temples is apparently not enough when you're bonded to a fire-prone winged gremlin with scale polish and an attitude. She’d rescued the dragonette — now called Fizzletuft — from a rogue spell circle in the north fen. Why? Because he had eyes like sunrise, a whimper like a teacup, and the emotional stability of a wet squirrel. Obviously. “Fizz,” she sighed, “we talked about the sparkle restraint protocols. You can’t go around flaring your tail every time a leaf rustles. This isn’t drama class. This is the forest.” Fizzletuft huffed, his wings fluttering with a rainbow shimmer that could blind a bard. “Well maybe the forest shouldn’t be so flammable. That’s not my fault.” The Trouble with Moonberries They were on a mission. A *simple* one, Poppy had thought. Find the Moonberry Grove. Harvest two berries. Don’t let Fizz eat them, explode them, or name them “Sir Wiggleberry” and try to teach them interpretive dance. So far, they had located zero berries, three suspiciously enchanted mushrooms (one of which proposed to Poppy), and a vine that had tried to spank Fizzletuft into next Tuesday. “I hate this place,” Fizz whined, perching dramatically on a mossy rock like a sad opera singer with abandonment issues. “You hate everything that isn’t about you,” Poppy replied, ducking under a willow branch. “You hated breakfast because the jam wasn’t ‘emotionally tart’ enough.” “I have a delicate palate!” “You ate a rock yesterday!” “It looked seasoned!” Poppy paused, exhaled, and counted to ten in three different elemental languages. The Mist Came Suddenly Just as the sun speared through the canopy in a shaft of perfect golden light, the forest changed. The air thickened. The birds stopped chirping. Even the leaves held their breath. “Fizz…” Poppy whispered, her voice dipping into seriousness — a rare tone in their partnership. “Yup. I feel it. Very mysterious. Definitely spooky. Possibly cursed. A hundred percent into it.” From the mist rose a shape — tall, robed, shimmering with the same light Poppy’s wings cast. It wasn’t malevolent. Just… ancient. Familiar, somehow. And oddly floral. “You seek the Grove,” it said, voice like wind through old chimes. “Yes,” Poppy replied, stepping forward. “We need the berries. For the ritual.” “Then you must prove your bond.” Fizzletuft perked up. “Oooh! Like a trust fall? Or interpretive dance? I have wings, I can pirouette!” The figure paused. “...No. You must enter the Trial of Two.” Poppy groaned. “Please tell me it’s not the one with the mushroom maze and the accidental emotional telepathy.” Fizz squealed. “We’re gonna get in each other’s heads? FINALLY. I’ve always wondered what it’s like inside your brain. Is it full of sarcasm and leaf facts?” She turned to him slowly. “Fizz. You have five seconds to run before I turn your tail into a windchime.” He didn’t run. He launched straight upward, cackling, sparkles trailing behind him like a magical sneeze. The Trial of Two (And the Sparkle Apocalypse) The moment they crossed the veil into the Trial Grove, the world blinked. One second, Poppy was side-eyeing Fizzletuft’s attempt to rebrand himself as “Lord Wingpop the Dazzling,” and the next — She was floating. Or... falling? Hard to tell. There was mist, and colors, and an unsettling number of tiny whispering voices saying things like “oof, this one’s emotionally constipated” and “he hides his trauma under glitter.” When her feet hit the ground again — mossy, fragrant, humming slightly — she was alone. “Fizz?” No answer. “This isn’t funny!” Still nothing, until— “I CAN HEAR YOUR THOUGHTS!” Fizzletuft’s voice echoed in her skull like an overexcited squirrel with a megaphone. “This is amazing! You think in leaf metaphors! Also, you’re low-key afraid of centipedes! WE HAVE TO UNPACK THAT!” “Fizz. Focus. Trial. Sacred place. Prove our bond. Stop narrating my anxieties.” “Okay okay okay. But wait — wait. Is that... is that a DRAGON SIZED VERSION OF ME?!” The Mirrorbeast Poppy turned, heart thudding. Standing before her — impossibly elegant, coiled in winged menace and sass — was a full-grown dragonette. Rainbow-scaled. Eyes glowing. And smirking in the exact same smug way Fizzletuft did when he was about to destroy a teacup on purpose. The Mirrorbeast. “To pass,” it boomed, “you must face your fears. Each other’s. Together.” Poppy didn’t like the way it said “together.” “Oh boy,” Fizz whispered in her brain. “I just remembered something. From before we met.” “What is it?” “I don’t... I don’t know if I hatched. I mean, I did. But not... normally. There was fire. A big explosion. Screaming. Possibly a sorcerer with a toupee. And I’ve always wondered if I was... created. Not born.” She paused. “Fizz.” “I know, I know. I act like I don’t care. But I do. What if I’m not real?” She stepped closer to the Mirrorbeast. “You’re as real as it gets, you over-glittered fire noodle.” The beast growled. “And your fear, faerie?” Poppy swallowed. “That I’m too much. Too sharp. That no one will ever choose to stay.” Silence fell. Then, out of nowhere, Fizzletuft crashed through a shrub, covered in vines, eyes wide. “I CHOSE YOU.” “Fizz—” “NOPE. I CHOSE YOU. You rescued me when I was all panic and fire and tail fluff. You scolded me like a mom and cheered for me like a friend. I may be made of magic and chaos, but I’d still choose you. Every day. Even if your cooking tastes like compost pudding.” The Mirrorbeast stared. And then... chuckled. It shimmered, cracked, and burst into stardust. The Trial was over. “You have passed,” said the grove, now gently glowing. “Bond: true. Chaos: accepted. Love: weird, but real.” The Grove’s Gift They found the Moonberries — soft-glowing, silver-veined, blooming from a tree that seemed to sigh when touched. Fizzletuft only licked one. Once. Regretted it immediately. Called it “spicy sadness with a minty afterburn.” On the way home, they were quiet. Not awkward quiet. The good kind. The “we’ve seen each other’s soul clutter and still want to hang out” kind. Back in the glade, Poppy lit a lantern and leaned back against the mossy stump they both called home base. Fizzletuft curled around her shoulders like a warm, glittering scarf. “I still think we should’ve performed that interpretive dance.” “We did, Fizz.” She smiled, eyes twinkling. “We just used feelings instead of jazz hands.” He let out a contented puff of smoke. “Gross.” “I know.”     Adopt the Sass. Sparkle Your Space. If you’ve fallen for the leafy sass of Poppy and the firecracker mischief of Fizzletuft, you can now bring their story home (without setting anything on fire... probably). “The Faerie and Her Dragonette” is now available in a collection of magical merchandise that’s as vivid, cheeky, and sparkly as the duo themselves: Tapestry – Hang this vibrant fae-and-flame duo in your space and let the adventure begin with every glance. Puzzle – Piece together the magic, the mystery, and maybe some glitter tantrums. It's the perfect dragon-approved challenge. Greeting Card – Send a message as bold and sparkly as your favorite faerie fire duo. For magical birthdays, sassy thank-yous, or just saying “hey, you're fabulous.” Sticker – Slap a bit of Poppy & Fizz on your journal, laptop, or cauldron. Mischief included. Glitter optional (but encouraged). Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch your own enchanted moment. Perfect for crafters, faerie fans, and anyone needing an excuse to hoard sparkly thread. Claim your piece of Deepwood Glade — because some stories deserve to live on your wall, your shelf, and definitely your heart. 🧚‍♀️🐉

par Bill Tiepelman

The Macabre Masquerade

The Dance Beneath Dying Stars The fog curled like fingers across the old courtyard stones, whispering secrets only the dead remembered. Candlelight, trembling in iron sconces, painted everything in flickering gold and mourning gray. The night air was thick with forgotten perfumes — rose ash, bitter myrrh, a trace of blood-orange wine aged in grief. They arrived together, always together, the way dusk arrives with the moon. Lucien Virell in midnight finery, top hat adorned with skulls that smiled wider than he did. And Celestine D’Roux, cloaked in smoke and corset-laced shadows, her heart encased in a red gem so vivid it pulsed with memory. Both masked in bone, painted in echoes. Lovers, perhaps. Cursed, certainly. Guests of honor at a gathering no living soul had ever truly left. The Unveiling The Masquerade was held but once a century — a celebration of mourning, of memory, of the beautiful rot of what had been. Every guest wore their regrets like jewelry. Every glance was a wound opened willingly. The music was sorrow carved into sound, led by violins that remembered heartbreaks never spoken aloud. Celestine descended the marbled stair with the grace of a fallen prayer. Her striped stockings wrapped her legs like shackles fashioned by angels. Her curls bloomed with feathers and bone, her smile stitched with longing she had never learned to bury. Lucien met her with a hand offered like a vow. “One night,” he said, voice thick as velvet and cold as confession. “We have one night before the dream ends again.” She pressed her fingers to his, eyes dark wells no wish dared fall into. “Then let us make the dream bleed beauty.” The Dance They moved like death pretending to be desire. Step by step, breathless and boundless, swirling through clouds of ash petals and ghostlight. Around them, the masquerade pulsed with forgotten lovers, mourning queens, hollow kings, and dancers who once were poets, now turned poetry themselves. The music shifted — slow, reverent, like a soul leaving the skin. The floor seemed to tilt, drawing them inward, deeper, toward the heart of something buried long ago: a promise made in blood beneath a red eclipse, when Lucien had still drawn breath and Celestine had still wept. “Do you remember?” he asked, voice raw at the edges. “I never stopped.” His fingers trembled at her waist. Not with fear — but with the weight of what could never be undone. Their love was a wound that refused to scar, a story told through lips long silent. As they spun, the others parted. Not out of awe — but reverence. Grief recognized grief, and these two were its truest priests. Midnight’s Toll The bells tolled from the cathedral’s skeleton tower. Midnight — the moment the veil thinned and the cost was counted. Lucien’s form began to fade, threads of shadow unwinding from his coat. Celestine reached for him, but her hand passed through the echo of his own. “No,” she breathed. “Not again.” “Every century, my love. Until the promise breaks or the world does.” He pressed his lips to her forehead, a phantom blessing. “I will return to you,” he whispered. “In fog, in flame, in the space between heartbeats. I am yours where no time can find us.” And with that, he was gone. Celestine stood alone beneath the blood-red balloons that never drifted, never burst. Only hovered — waiting. Around her, the Masquerade danced on. But her world had tilted. Again. And she was left with only memory and the echo of a man she once called forever. She smiled. And it cracked like porcelain. The Heart That Refused to Die The ballroom emptied slowly, as if time itself was reluctant to sweep away what remained. Guests retreated in silken silence, their masks cracking at the edges, their elegance wilting beneath the weight of farewell. All except one. Celestine lingered at the center of the dancefloor, haloed in cinders and feathers. Her red-heart pendant glowed faintly, a pulse echoing from within — his heartbeat. No longer flesh, but still hers. She walked alone now, among shadows that whispered her name like a hymn. Each footstep echoed memories. Here, he had kissed her. There, they had vowed to never leave. Everywhere she turned, he was absent and somehow still near. She did not cry. Not because she could not. But because even sorrow had grown quiet inside her. What remained now was something deeper. Something colder. Something eternal. The Mirror of Remembering In a forgotten chamber behind the crimson-curtained alcove, Celestine approached the Mirror of Remembering — a relic wrought from obsidian and regret. It was said to show not what was, but what could have been. Most who looked into it left screaming or laughing. Or simply vanished. Celestine stared into it, fearless. And saw him. Lucien. Whole. Laughing. A garden bloomed around him, with sunlight draped across his face and a ring upon his hand. The ring she once wore, before the fire. Before the curse. Before the deal struck at the edge of the veil. He was alive in that reflection — not as he was, but as he might have been. And beside him stood her — but younger, less adorned in sorrow, more filled with breath than ghosts. She lifted her hand to touch the glass. It rippled. The image faltered. “Do not chase what was never meant to be,” the mirror whispered, its voice her own. But her heart — that red gem set in a cage of silver and loss — beat louder than warning. Louder than reason. And she turned away. The Pact Revisited Celestine returned to the courtyard, now swallowed in fog and half-light. There, on the obsidian dais where the Masquerade had begun, stood the veiled one — the Architect of the Masquerade, neither alive nor dead, but something else entirely. A curator of stories trapped in time, of vows unfulfilled. “You seek to rewrite fate,” the Architect intoned, voice like rust and rain. “No,” she said. “I seek to finish it.” “He is beyond the veil. You know the cost.” “Yes. My body. My breath. My tomorrow. All of it.” The Architect extended a skeletal hand. In its palm, a thorned key. “Then pass through the veil. Reclaim him. But know this — you cannot return.” Celestine took the key. Her hands did not tremble. Her resolve was older than fear. The Door Beneath the Stars Behind the oldest rose arch in the garden — one that had not bloomed since Lucien’s last breath — she found the door. Etched in it were their names, carved with the same blade that once spilled their shared blood in vow. The key turned with a sigh. The door opened on silence. She stepped through — and the world changed. There was no fire. No scream. Just... warmth. A warmth she hadn’t known since before memory. Her hands became flesh again, her tears real. And before her stood Lucien — whole, human, reaching for her with eyes full of disbelief and aching joy. “You...” he whispered. “Always,” she replied. They fell into each other, the past crumbling behind them like dried rose petals. There were no masks. No masquerade. Only a beginning — at last, and far too late — in the only place left untouched by time: The space between death and forever.     Curate the Darkness. Keep the Memory. For those drawn to passion that defies time and elegance painted in bone and velvet, “The Macabre Masquerade” lives on beyond the veil — now captured in exquisitely crafted products for your home, your heart, and your hidden corners. Let Lucien and Celestine’s story breathe through your space with our hauntingly beautiful collection: Tapestry – Drape your walls in shadow and elegance with this woven echo of gothic romance. Canvas Print – A gallery-worthy portrait of love undying, sealed in rich texture and eternal grayscale. Throw Pillow – Rest your thoughts upon feathers, lace, and longing. Duvet Cover – Wrap yourself in whispered secrets and sleep beneath the veil of love and ash. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch the sorrow and beauty, one thread at a time, and bring their tale to life in your own hands. Step beyond the masquerade and into memory.Because some love stories are too haunting to forget.

par Bill Tiepelman

The Painter's Pup

The Trouble With Turpentine and Tails There once lived a pup with fur so swirled, so vibrantly chaotic, that art professors across the land either wept with envy or spontaneously retired. His name? Bristle. Named not after a brush, but after what most people did when he tried to “help” them paint. Bristle was no ordinary dog. He didn’t bark. He *splattered*. His tail was a living brushstroke, his paws tracked cerulean, ochre, and “is-that-glitter?” across every surface. If he sneezed, someone got a new mural. His human, Gilda van Splick, was a renowned expressionist painter with a penchant for dramatic hats and even more dramatic tantrums. “Bristle, darling,” she’d often sigh, mid-explosion, “you can’t just PEE in the palette again. That’s a *limited edition* umber.” Bristle would cock his head, blink twice, and promptly chase a phantom dot only he could see. It was rumored the dot was existential. The Incident With the Art Critic It was a sunny Tuesday when the infamous art critic Clive Rottensnob arrived at Gilda’s studio. He wore a monocle, carried a snarky aura, and smelled faintly of ungrateful cheese. “I’m here,” he announced, “to review your latest masterpiece. It had better not involve that dog again.” Gilda’s eyes twitched. “Of course not, Clive. He’s simply... around. Not *involved*.” At that exact moment, Bristle launched from behind a canvas, flying in an arc of neon green and metallic gold, leaving a streak of paint across Clive’s cream linen trousers. The dog landed with a proud yip and a splat. The splat was considered avant-garde. “Good heavens!” Clive bellowed. “I am not a canvas!” “Clearly not,” Gilda said. “You lack depth.” Clive left in a huff, then a minute later returned to retrieve his monocle. Bristle had chewed it into a kaleidoscope and renamed it “Optic Confusion.” It sold two days later for $4,000 and a meatball sub. The Rise of a Furry Muse Word spread quickly. Suddenly, everyone wanted a Bristle Original. His pawprint had become the toast of the art world — literal toast, in one gallery's case. He had no idea what he was doing, and that made it better. “Art is feeling,” Gilda mused one night, sipping wine and watching Bristle roll through a vat of abstract glitter goo. “Art,” Bristle replied, licking a brush that had definitely seen too much turpentine, “tastes weird.” He sneezed. The splatter hit a blank wall. It sold the next morning for $12,000 and a year’s supply of chew toys. And thus, the legend of the Painter’s Pup began. The Gallery Gala, the Glitterpocalypse, and the Brush With Greatness Six months later, Bristle was a phenomenon. No longer just a mischievous mutt with a Jackson Paw-llock complex, he had become a celebrated enigma in the art world. People whispered his name in hushed tones at espresso bars. Critics battled over the meaning of his works, particularly the infamous "Untitled #37", which was just a series of red pawprints across a yoga mat and one disturbingly accurate depiction of a sausage. Gilda, once a misunderstood genius, now found herself outshone by her shaggy sidekick. Invitations rolled in faster than Bristle could destroy them. (He had an unfortunate habit of mistaking envelopes for hostile squirrels.) But none of that compared to the invitation that arrived by drone one cloudy Tuesday: THE GRAND GALA OF GLORIOUS GALLERIESThe prestigious House of Aesthetics invites you to unveil your greatest work at the Gala of the Century.Dress code: Excessively dramatic. Glitter optional but encouraged. Bristle barked once and promptly painted the RSVP in raspberry jam on the carpet. They were going. Gala Night: The Brush, the Bark, the Buffet The venue was a literal castle, converted from a 14th-century fortress into a modern space with ambient lighting, brooding violinists, and at least three people named “Sebastian” wearing scarves that cost more than rent. Gilda wore a gown inspired by one of Bristle’s earlier works — a swirling pattern of orange, blue, and “oops-that-was-coffee.” Bristle? He wore a bowtie made of paintbrush bristles and glitter shoes he made himself by rolling through a craft bin. He looked like a Lisa Frank fever dream — and he loved it. “Are you nervous?” Gilda asked as they entered the main hall, which was filled with gallerists, influencers, and that one guy who always insists NFTs are still a thing. Bristle sniffed the air. “I smell shrimp cocktail and mild existential panic. Classic opening night energy.” At the center of the gala, on a rotating dais beneath a chandelier shaped like a question mark, was the showstopper: Bristle’s newest masterpiece. He’d titled it “I Chased the Moon and Found My Tail”. The piece defied explanation. Swirls, splatters, bite marks. A haunting dab of mustard in the corner that art theorists would debate for years. One critic cried openly. Another proposed marriage to the canvas. Then... disaster struck. The Glitterpocalypse Everything was going well until Bristle, overcome with creative inspiration (or possibly indigestion), attempted a live performance piece. He leapt onto the buffet table. He rolled through a tray of canapés. He launched himself at the rotating dais, did a backflip midair (where did he learn that?!), and knocked over three vats of promotional glitter — one of which was pressurized. The explosion was immediate. And glorious. Glitter coated every person, every artwork, every canapé. The chandelier collapsed under the weight of aesthetic irony. One influencer livestreamed the entire thing and gained 42,000 new followers in 30 minutes. In the center of it all, Bristle stood triumphant, tail wagging in a shimmering cyclone of fabulous ruin. His bowtie was on fire. Nobody cared. It was art. The Aftermath and Accidental Enlightenment The House of Aesthetics tried to be outraged. They issued a formal complaint written entirely in haiku. But it was too late — Bristle had become a legend. His work — the smeared remains of food, fabric, and glitter-borne chaos — was rebranded as “Post-Intentional Aesthetic Destruction”. It sold to a private collector in Milan for the price of a small yacht, a lifetime supply of chew toys, and a full-time emotional support butler named Wayne. Gilda and Bristle returned to their studio. They painted less and played more. Bristle, tired of fame, focused on his true calling: making very specific messes in very expensive places. “Do you ever wonder what it all means?” Gilda asked one evening, watching Bristle nap on a palette shaped like a cloud. Bristle yawned, rolled onto his back, and whispered, “Art is just the universe licking its own tail and calling it a masterpiece.” She blinked. “That... was actually profound.” He farted. “And that was balance.” Epilogue: Where Are They Now? Bristle currently teaches an abstract splatter class for toddlers and surrealist pigeons. Gilda is launching a line of clothing inspired by dog prints and chaos. Clive Rottensnob became a llama therapist and hasn’t spoken about “Optic Confusion” since. Optic Confusion was recently acquired by a museum, where it now haunts the gift shop. And as for art? It’s still messy. Still loud. Still weird. Just like Bristle.     Decorate Like a Dog Just Discovered Color Inspired by the legendary chaos of Bristle the Brush-Tailed Wonder, we've turned his vibrant, swirly madness into home décor that makes a statement. (That statement is somewhere between “I love dogs” and “I let my inner goblin paint the guest room.”) The Painter’s Pup is now available in glorious, cuddle-approved form: Tapestry – Hang a hurricane of color and fluff on your wall like the artistic rebel you are. Throw Pillow – Snuggle into swirls that may or may not inspire a nap and a sudden craving for peanut butter. Fleece Blanket – Stay warm in a flurry of fur, color, and questionable life choices (just like Bristle). Tote Bag – Carry your snacks, sketchpads, or emergency glitter with Bristle’s chaotic charm by your side. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch this adorable masterpiece one loop at a time while Bristle barks encouragement from beyond the frame. Shop the Pup Collection and let your living space scream "I believe in art, color, and small dogs with big dreams." 🎨🐾

par Bill Tiepelman

Whispering Wings in the Winter Wilds

The Silence That Screamed Back The snow didn’t crunch beneath her feet — it gasped. With every step, Lira walked like a secret looking for somewhere safe to hide. Swathed in crimson velvet stitched with symbols no mortal tailor could explain (though her dry cleaner would later try, bless his soul), she moved like a question mark curled into a lullaby. Her companion, however, had never been one for subtlety. “You know,” Korrik said, swiveling his feathery head in that unnerving 270-degree owl way, “this whole ‘mysterious enchantress in the woods’ look is gorgeous, yes, but I’m freezing my tail feathers off.” “You don’t have a tail,” Lira replied without looking. “Metaphorical tail feathers. Emotional tail feathers. I’m vulnerable, Lira.” Korrik, the Great Spirit Owl of the Frosthorn Peaks, guardian of the Glacial Gate, and recently self-declared podcast host, had a way of blending gravitas and sarcasm like hot tea with just a splash of gin. Once, he’d disarmed an entire battalion of ice trolls with nothing but a pun and a glare. But today, he was simply cranky — and suspiciously damp. “That’s because you fell in a creek,” Lira murmured, stroking his soaked wing. “I was diving to save you!” “From a squirrel.” “A potentially rabid squirrel with a knife!” “It had a pinecone.” “A sharpened pinecone. Tactical weapon. Definitely trained.” The Watchers Return The forest, that endless blur of white and breath and needle-thin trees, shifted around them like it was listening. Because it was. Everything in the Winter Wilds watched, even the silence. Especially the silence. Lira slowed near a clearing marked by stone towers, twisted and worn like the spines of sleeping giants. She placed a gloved hand on one. It was warm. Not warm like sunlight, but warm like memory — familiar, haunting, a little clingy. “They’re stirring again,” she said. Korrik’s mood shifted in a blink. Humor dropped from his feathers like a cloak. “How long do we have?” “Until twilight. Maybe less.” “You could be less vague and more terrifying, you know.” “You could be less sarcastic and more helpful.” “But then I wouldn’t be me.” She smiled. “Exactly.” In the frozen space between heartbeat and echo, their bond shimmered. Ancient and sacred, born not of birthright but of choice — a witch and her watcher, once enemies, now fused by purpose. What that purpose was, exactly, remained frustratingly cryptic. But that’s how the Fates liked it. The Fates were jerks. A Name Written in Wind “You’re sure she’s here?” The voice came from behind the ridge. Male. Low. Invasive. Lira’s breath hitched. Korrik’s feathers stood on end. “Trouble incoming. You want the high road or the high ground?” “I’ll take the high ground. You take the drama.” He flared his wings like a diva on opening night. “I was born for it.” Three shadowed figures crested the rise. Cloaks like dusk. Eyes like spite. The lead one bore a staff crowned with a pulsating green stone — pulsing not with power, but hunger. “Lira of the Crimson Vale,” the leader intoned. “Your presence offends the order of things.” Lira tilted her head. “My presence offends a lot of things. Bureaucracy, fashion critics, small talk... Take a number.” Korrik swooped low, fangs bared. “And your face offends me. Let’s fight!” The air crackled. Snow lifted. The Wilds inhaled. And somewhere, just behind reality, something very old... opened an eye. Talons, Truth, and That One Time with the Ice Nymph The snow exploded before the first spell even landed. Korrik shot upward in a cyclone of white, feathers catching the moonlight like slivers of steel. Lira spun, red cloak flaring behind her, arms rising into sigils carved into the air with raw intent. Magic, sharp and ancient, burst from her fingertips like forgotten lullabies turned feral. “You should really work on your subtlety!” Korrik called from above as he dive-bombed the staff-wielder. “Also your skincare routine!” The man swung his staff, unleashing a lash of green flame. It hit Korrik squarely in the chest—where it fizzled and died. Korrik blinked. “Well. That tickled.” He responded with a scream that cracked frost from branches a hundred yards away. The snow groaned, split open, and something *moved* beneath it. Lira stepped forward. The leader, flanked by two cowards dressed like budget necromancers, snarled. “You have no idea what you’re protecting.” “Wrong again,” she said, eyes glowing violet. “I know exactly what I’m protecting. That’s why you’re going to lose.” With a motion like pulling memories from her bones, Lira whispered a word no one had heard for centuries — not because it was forbidden, but because it was lonely. Everything froze. Literally. The attackers, mid-motion, snapped into statues of frost. The stone towers behind them shuddered, exhaled mist, and shifted their alignment, revealing a stairway down into the earth. The entrance to the Heart Below. The Pact Rekindled Korrik landed beside her, talons careful not to touch the threshold. “You sure about this?” “No. But we were never meant to be sure. Only brave.” “You know that’s the kind of inspirational nonsense that gets people eaten by haunted furniture, right?” “I trust you.” He blinked again. Slower this time. The kind of blink that said fine, I love you too, now let’s go die together but stylishly. They stepped onto the stairs. Stone hummed beneath their feet. The deeper they descended, the warmer it got — not in temperature, but in intensity. The way you feel walking into a room where your name’s just been spoken. Below, the Heart pulsed. A being of ice, spirit, and sorrow — guardian of the balance between realms. It had once chosen Korrik as its emissary. Now it chose Lira as its voice. “She comes,” the Heart whispered. “Blood-bound. Magic-marked. Fierce and flammable.” “I told you to stop using that shampoo,” Korrik muttered. “You smell like vengeance and lilacs.” Lira ignored him. “The Order is moving. They want to unbind the gates.” “Then we will seal them forever,” the Heart replied. “And if they follow?” “Then we give them what they seek: a world where only the strong, the true, and the gloriously sarcastic remain.” Korrik puffed out his chest. “Finally. My kind of world.” Aftermath, Tea, and Maybe a Book Deal Back in the forest, the statues began to melt — slowly, screaming. Their magic was broken, their leadership dismantled, and one of them had wet himself before freezing. Korrik promised never to let anyone forget it. Weeks passed. Snow fell gentler. The Wilds whispered less and laughed more. Lira and Korrik found a cabin on the edge of everything. A place where the world couldn’t quite reach, and reality had the good sense to stay confused. They drank too much tea, argued over firewood stacking technique, and fought off the occasional cursed marmot. Their bond deepened — not because of duty, but because they were better, stronger, and funnier together. Every so often, someone would knock on the cabin door with a warning or a prophecy. And every time, Korrik would answer with a smirk and a warning: “If you don’t come bearing cookies or compliments, turn back now. The witch bites. And I peck.” They never stayed long. And So... The Heart slept once more. The forest watched with different eyes now — gentler, knowing, a little amused. And the snow? The snow still gasped. But now, it was with laughter.     Bring the Magic Home If this tale of fierce friendship, ancient snow, and slightly sarcastic owls spoke to your soul (or at least chuckled at it), you can now bring “Whispering Wings in the Winter Wilds” into your own realm. Explore our enchanted collection of themed products below, perfect for gifts, gallery walls, or just reminding yourself that mystical forests and divine winged sass do, in fact, belong in your daily life: Greeting Card – For when your messages deserve a little winter magic. Tapestry – Drape your space in spellbound wonder. Acrylic Print – Let the colors of frost and fire shine in rich, vivid detail. Puzzle – Piece together the magic with your own two hands. Cross-Stitch Pattern – Stitch your way into the Wilds with this elegant pattern version of the image. Shop the collection and let your walls whisper stories of snow, spirit, and sass.

par Bill Tiepelman

Mystic Guardian: The Wolf of Thousand Dreams

In the quiet hours between dusk and nightfall, when shadows slither long and the wind hums forgotten names, the forest breathes with more than leaves. It was here, in the forbidden boundary of reality and myth, that the villagers spoke of a presence not bound by flesh, but carved in dream and fire. They called it Avenar, the Wolf of Thousand Dreams. Avenar was not born but woven. The old stories said his fur was stitched from strands of starfire, his eyes forged in the black furnace between worlds. To gaze upon him was to glimpse all your regrets at once, bathed in cosmic silence. Children dared one another to cross the Hollowroot River—the border of the waking world—to seek his trail. None returned unchanged. But tonight was different. She came from the city. Leather jacket cracked with wear, her boots stained in blood and secrets. Her name was Elira, and she carried a blade shaped like a crescent moon and scarred like its surface. A Guardian. Chosen not by gods, but by consequence. She bore no mark, no blessing. Only purpose. Whispers from the Elderglen trees wound around her mind like mist: He is awake. She did not flinch when the cold howl rose from the depths of the vale, ancient and aching. Instead, she followed it. Past the grove where time bent, past the rocks that bled silver when touched by shadow. She knew the wolf was waiting—not to attack, but to weigh her soul. They met beneath the forgotten temple, half-consumed by ivy and moonlight. The wolf’s breath stirred the stars. His fur rippled with fractal hues, a living mosaic of dreams lost and found. Eyes like burning orbs, deep and knowing, fixed on her. Elira knelt. "I seek not absolution,” she said, “only truth." The wind stilled. The trees bowed. And in a voice that was both thunder and whisper, the wolf answered: "Then walk the path of those who never sleep." The night cracked. A portal of memory and madness yawned open behind him, a swirl of lives unlived and moments unborn. Elira stepped forward, blade humming with light, into the fold of eternity itself. Behind her, the forest closed like a secret. Only the howl remained, echoing across realms. The Dream That Hunts There was no up, no down. Only the spiral. Elira fell and flew at once, her mind stitched across lifetimes—hers and others. Memories not her own clawed into her senses: a child lost in winter, a lover swallowed by fire, a war that never was. The dream-path was no mere vision; it was an ecosystem, breathing pain and hope in equal measure. The Wolf of Thousand Dreams led her through it—not as a guide, but as a test. “Every step forward,” he had told her in voice like rusted bells, “is a truth laid bare.” First, she met the hunter she might have become. In that strand of existence, Elira had slain Avenar before his howl ever touched the sky. She wore his pelt like a crown, ruled villages with fear. Her eyes were hollow, her smile cruel. When their gazes met across the thin veil, both versions of her snarled. She staggered back into the spiral. Next came the child. A girl with silver braids and mismatched eyes, cradling a bone flute made from the spine of her fallen mother. She looked at Elira, not with fear, but recognition. “You left me,” the girl whispered. “And the dream turned into a cage.” The world around her was barren—ashes, cracked earth, no stars above. The Guardian dropped to her knees. Her blade trembled. She couldn’t tell if the girl was future or past, consequence or warning. But Avenar was watching. The wolf emerged from the starlit fissures again, silent as breath. His form had shifted—no longer entirely wolf. Wings feathered with cosmic ink shimmered behind him, and his limbs bent in ways no earthly creature should. His voice, when it came, resonated through her bones. "You think your strength is in the sword. But your burden is older than steel." Elira rose slowly, her voice hoarse. “Then tell me what I carry.” Avenar circled her, eyes flaming suns. "You carry every soul that cried for justice. Every whisper ignored. Every nightmare you never faced. You are not here to defeat me, Elira. You are here to become me." The realization struck like lightning. This was not a trial to conquer the guardian wolf. It was a rite to inherit his legacy. Elira’s breath caught. Her blade shattered—voluntarily—splintering into motes of light that embedded themselves into her skin. Her bones felt heavier, older, made of the forest and fire and sorrow. She collapsed to her knees as the last echoes of her former self fell away. When she rose, her eyes mirrored his. And the spiral shifted. Now she stood at the mouth of the forgotten temple, half-consumed by ivy and moonlight. A young man approached, weapon at his back, his soul cracked by grief. He did not see a woman. He saw a beast of myth, fur laced with glowing fractals, eyes that glimmered with every dream he’d buried. He dropped to one knee. “I seek not glory, only peace.” Elira—the new Avenar—breathed deep and spoke her first words as the Dream Guardian: "Then walk the path of those who never sleep." The howl rose again, ancient and fierce, carrying across dimensions like a beacon. A new guardian stood watch. A new spiral had begun. And somewhere, far away, a child dreamed of a silver wolf, and smiled in her sleep.     Bring the Mystic Guardian into Your World If the legend of Avenar stirred your soul, now you can carry his story into your space. The Wolf of Thousand Dreams by Bill and Linda Tiepelman is available in beautifully crafted formats for your home, heart, and hands. 🔥 Wood Print – Bold, natural, and timeless 🌌 Wall Tapestry – Let dreams flow across your walls 👜 Tote Bag – Carry a guardian wherever you go ☕ Coffee Mug – Start your mornings with myth 🧵 Cross-Stitch Pattern – Craft the dream with your own hands Let the Guardian live on—not just in tales, but in the texture of your life.

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.