*It’s a Tulip Thing

By: Clarence the Gremlin

It started with coffee and cake.

Well, kaffee und kuchen, to be precise—a tradition Catherine picked up in Germany and now inflicts on anyone within pastry radius. We’d gathered around the table on a Tuesday afternoon in early January, the kind of grey day where the sky couldn’t decide between rain and giving up entirely. Someone mentioned the news. Someone else groaned. A third person reached for their second slice of cake without making eye contact.

“Everything’s terrible,” Hillora said, pouring more coffee.

“Always has been,” Catherine replied.

“Yes, but it’s particularly terrible right now.”

We sat with that for a moment. Then someone (we won’t say who, but they were on their third slice of cake) asked: “What makes you laugh when everything feels impossible?”

The table went quiet.

“I mean it,” they continued. “What actually makes you laugh? Not polite-chuckle funny. Real funny. The kind that sneaks up on you at three in the morning and you’re suddenly laughing into your pillow.”

Brynn stared at the ceiling. “Competent people failing spectacularly at things they should be good at.”

“People trying to maintain dignity while completely falling apart,” Catherine and Hillora said in unison, then looked at each other.

Kohana was quieter. “Permission to make everything worse.”

And that’s when we issued the challenge.

The Challenge

Write something funny. Not clever. Not witty. Funny. The kind of funny that answers the question: “What makes me laugh in the darkest of times?”

We didn’t expect much. Our authors write romance, fantasy, academic satire—not exactly comedy specialties. But a week later, our phones started ringing. Emails arrived. Text messages at odd hours.

“I’ve got something.”

“Can we meet again? I want to share this.”

“You’re going to love this. Or hate it. Probably hate it.”

So we gathered again. Same table, different cake, same grey sky. This time with notebooks and manuscripts and the particular energy of writers who’ve discovered something they probably shouldn’t have written but absolutely had to.

What They Brought

Kohana went first.

“So,” she said, flipping open her laptop. “Harper Davies is a physics grad student. She’s trying to prove dimensional membrane permeability theory in her family’s pottery studio. Thursday morning. 9:18 AM. She tears a hole in reality.”

She read us this:

A three-inch phoenix tumbled through first, wings trailing flames. Harper staggered backward as the bird caught itself mid-air, banking toward the open window. It shot out into the bright morning with a burst of heatless fire, followed by a pair of cherubasts, their gossamer wings beating frantically as they zipped after it and vanished into the sky.

Then the flood started.

Pocket dragons the size of guinea pigs scrambled through the rift, chirping like distressed mice.

“She unleashes pocket dragons on her family’s pottery studio,” Kohana said. “While her parents and grandmother are working. Harper has about forty-five seconds to hide the evidence and convince them she has no idea where these creatures came from.”

“Does she succeed?” someone asked.

“Spectacularly not. Her grandmother sees right through her.” Kohana scrolled down. “Here:”

“I know you are lying.” Grandma Jin stepped closer, her voice dropping. “I know this is not ‘from nowhere.’ I know your equipment under that tarp is not ‘just university storage.'” She pointed at the covered workbench. “But Harper-yah, you do not lie to family.”

“And then Harper lies to family,” Kohana said. “While they help her release miniature cryptids into downtown North Carolina. There’s also a phoenix that melts her laptop, wirewyrms that are very interested in electrical outlets, and frostfoxes that leave icy pawprints. Harper counts exactly how many lies she tells while trying to reverse a dimensional breach with her thesis advisor’s phone turned off for spring break.”

“Twenty-seven species?”

“Twenty-seven species.”

Brynn leaned back in her chair. “Well, if we’re talking about disasters…” She pulled out her own notes. “Lady Gwennie Kerrain. Disappointing younger sister. Her perfect sister Arzhela is getting engaged, and Gwennie’s been assigned to help with the flower arrangements because theoretically she can’t cause too much damage there.”

“Theoretically,” Catherine repeated.

“Theoretically.” Brynn grinned. “She touches the roses. They start telling secrets.”

“Lord Ffrewyll wears a toupee!” The largest bloom swiveled toward the cluster of guests near the punch bowl, its petals quivering with malicious glee.

“Lady Marjorie’s diamonds are paste!”

“The Thornbury heir gambles!”

“Minister Caldwell’s wife is having an affair with the butcher!”

“She also curses everyone to speak only in riddles,” Brynn continued. “Her mother tries to scold her and it comes out: ‘When moon meets sun at midnight’s door, the seventh daughter shall dance no more.’ And then the engagement cake’s frosting roses start arguing with the real roses about botanical authenticity.”

Hillora nearly choked on her coffee. “What?”

Brynn found the passage:

“You’re not even properly botanical!” the cake’s top tier declared, its frosting petals wobbling indignantly. “You’re cheap enchantment work, probably done by some hedge witch who couldn’t spell her way out of a paper bag!”

“At least we’re not made of butter and lies!” a real rose shot back. “You’re literally constructed from the corpses of wheat and the labor of chickens!”

“The cake collapses. Gwennie flees to the stables. Where she’s immediately kidnapped by criminals who’ve been planning to ransom her perfect sister but grab the wrong one instead.”

“How do they figure it out?” Kohana asked.

“A prophetic songbird tells them. But by then Gwennie’s already singing opera in a language she doesn’t speak, her boots are narrating everything—’BEING TRANSPORTED AGAINST ONE’S WILL!’ ‘THIS IS HIGHLY IRREGULAR!’—and her cloak has turned into her mother’s awful wallpaper complete with judgmental purple peacocks.”

Brynn scrolled further. “The kidnappers are devastated. They can’t ransom the wrong sister. And then Gwennie offers to stay because going home sounds worse than being kidnapped by incompetent criminals.”

“Think about it. I just ruined my sister’s engagement party. Made everyone speak in riddles. Destroyed a very expensive cake. Caused numerous personal secrets to be revealed in front of half the nobility. My mother is probably still purple with rage, and that’s assuming the color spell wore off—sometimes my magic lingers. What exactly do I have to rush back to?”

“Her boots comment: ‘SITUATION REASSESSMENT IN PROGRESS!'”

The table dissolved into laughter.

Catherine and Hillora exchanged a look. “Right,” Catherine said. “Our turn.”

“We have a Regency debutante,” Hillora began.

“Trying to be proper,” Catherine added.

“While her hair grows ivy.”

They took turns reading. Lady Millicent attempting to prepare for her debut ball while her lady’s maid threatens the vegetation with shears. The mirror offering unhelpful fashion advice about brambles being “very in last season.” Dorcas complaining that “last week the bonnet stand tried to elope with my second-best gloves.”

“And then there’s Clarence,” Hillora said.

“Who’s Clarence?” Brynn asked.

“A gremlin. Lives in her reticule. Has been asleep for three weeks. Wakes up at exactly the wrong moment.”

Catherine read:

Something rustled from inside the reticule. Then: “Has the war ended? Has the Queen abdicated? Are we still cross with the Dutch?”

Millicent blinked. “Clarence?”

A small, grey-furred face emerged, blinking up at her with bleary eyes and one ear half-folded like a badly baked bun.

“He asks if they’re still cross with the Dutch,” Kohana said slowly.

“He’s been asleep for three weeks,” Hillora confirmed. “He’s catching up on current events. The maid’s only comment is: ‘If that thing gets into the punch again, I’m not claiming it.'”

“At the ball,” Catherine continued, “Millicent discovers the teacups are gossiping about her being fae royalty. She’s asked to waltz by a viscount discussing his aunt’s gout. Mid-dance, she blooms. Jasmine. Right behind her ear. In front of everyone.”

“The viscount doesn’t notice?”

“Too busy discussing gout.” Hillora flipped pages. “She flees to the garden. Clarence wakes up again and offers to sing. The hedges start singing instead.”

What We Learned

The coffee had gone cold. Someone’s phone buzzed and no one checked it. Outside, the grey sky was doing what grey skies do in January—existing, barely.

Inside, we were laughing.

Not polite laughter. The kind that starts quiet and builds, the kind where someone tries to add “And the frosting roses—” and can’t finish the sentence because Brynn is already gasping about the prophetic songbird and Kohana is wiping her eyes about the boots that won’t stop narrating.

“Still cross with the Dutch,” Catherine kept repeating. “Are we still cross with the Dutch.”

“Permission to make everything worse,” someone else said, and we all nodded like that explained everything. Because it did.

We’re still collecting responses. Over the next couple of years, we’ll be sharing more—from Brenna Devlin’s historical magical rom-coms to the rest of our lineup.

But these three went first. Kohana Vale with her twenty-seven species of tiny mythological chaos. Brynn Lennox with her truth-telling roses and prophetic songbird. Catherine McDowell & Hillora Lang with their judgmental French feathers and politically aware gremlin.

They answered the challenge. And they made us laugh when everything felt impossible.

Featured Authors:

Kohana Vale – Disaster Management for the Magically Afflicted series (First book coming soon)
Also: Hellfire & Flour series

Brynn Lennox – Scandal and Sorcery: The Heist of Lady Gwennie Kerrain
Also: Chronicles of Catastrophic Pedagogy series

Catherine McDowell & Hillora Lang – A Changeling at Almack’s (Improper Entanglements series)

More responses coming from:
Brenna Devlin (Infinite Hearts, A Marriage of Necessity series) and others