A Bedtime Story

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to find collections, blogs, and even submit your own story suggestions for future episodes!This episode is a look behind-the-scenes of the making of Season 1 of “A Bedtime Story.” Thank you for being a listener, and I hope you enjoy this special episode.Season 2 is coming later in January!

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Welcome to A Bedtime Story, I’m Matthew Mitchell, and tonight I’m officially announcing Season 2 of A Bedtime Story, as well as an upcoming special behind-the-scenes look at the making of season 1 of A Bedtime Story.Season 2 of A Bedtime Story is coming, and it’ll be slightly different but better than ever. Instead of being a daily podcast, I’ll be switching to three days a week - Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’ll also move back the publication time a couple of hours to be at 6pm US Central, instead of being at noon. But to compensate this adjustment in how often episodes are released, the episodes of Season 2 will be longer -  averaging around 5 minutes instead of the current 2-3 minutes for Season 1’s daily stories. And, each week the three stories will come together to form one larger, more detailed story.These changes should allow me to tell better stories, and add more overall quality to the production, while being a lot more maintainable and sustainable than the pace of Season 1 turned out to be.After I take a short break for the holidays and rest up after a year of daily podcasts, Season 2 of A Bedtime Story will begin airing in January 2026.However before Season 2 begins, you can look forward to one final bonus episode of Season 1, which will be a behind-the-scenes look at the making of the show, some commentary on my process, and a look ahead at how I’m creating Season 2. Watch for this episode to appear in mid-December 2025.You won’t need any different podcast feeds for any of this, the new episodes will continue to show up in your podcast player of choice just as they have been. And on that note, I’d like to sincerely thank each and every one of you for being a listener. Your support is the entire reason this show kept up a daily pace for a year. This is far and away the most successful solo project I’ve ever done, and I’m so grateful to be having this experience. I hope you’ve been enjoying the show as much as I’ve enjoyed making it for you this last year.So that’s it! A new behind-the-scenes episode is coming in the next couple of weeks, and Season 2 will begin in January 2026!This has been a Season 2 announcement of A Bedtime Story. Goodnight.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Thank you for one full year doing this podcast every single day!“A Bedtime Story” Season 2 is coming soon!The bedroom was lit only by the warm, amber glow of the salt lamp in the corner, casting long, soft shadows against the walls covered in posters of dinosaurs and spaceships. The rain tapped a gentle, rhythmic beat against the windowpane, the perfect percussion for a bedtime ritual.Arthur tucked the duvet tighter around his youngest, Max, who was currently trying to wrestle a stuffed triceratops into a headlock. In the bunk bed across the room, Leo hung over the top rail, while Sophie sat cross-legged on the bottom bunk, her expectant eyes wide."Alright, crew," Arthur whispered, adopting his serious 'Storyteller General' voice. "Settled down. Teeth are brushed, pajamas are on, and chaos is managed. What’s on the docket for tonight?"Max released the triceratops. "Percy the Penguin!" he chirped. "The one where he invents new dances!”Sophie shook her head, her braids bouncing. "No, we read that Tuesday. I want 'Tales of Veridia'. The chapter where they fight the gryphon!”"Boring," Leo groaned from the top bunk. "Let's do 'Bella the Bear'. She eats the honey. It’s classic literature."Arthur held up a hand, silencing the debate. He reached past the stack of well-worn, dog-eared picture books on the nightstand—past Percy, past the Veridia anthology, and even past Bella. Instead, he pulled a dusty, leather-bound volume from the very back of the shelf. It smelled like old paper and cinnamon."Tonight," Arthur said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "we are going off-script. Tonight, I’m reading a personal favorite. It’s about a wizard named Sichas."The kids went quiet. They didn't know Sichas."Is he a nice wizard?" Max asked suspiciously."He’s a busy wizard," Arthur corrected. "And a very, very powerful one. But he wasn't always powerful. In fact, his story begins with a bit of a disaster."Arthur opened the book. The pages crackled.Once upon a time, in a world called Oria, there lived a wizard named Sichas. Oria was a beautiful place, filled with floating waterfalls and trees that grew crystal leaves, but it had a massive plumbing problem.You see, magic in Oria flowed through invisible tubes called ley-lines. And just like old pipes in a house, the ley-lines were leaking. Magic was spilling out everywhere. Toads were accidentally turning into teapots. Gravity would randomly turn off on Tuesdays. It was a mess.Sichas was the High Mender, and it was his job to fix it. He stood in the center of the Grand Plaza, rolled up his sleeves, and grabbed the two biggest frayed ends of the magical ley-lines. He pulled with all his might, his boots sliding on the cobblestones. He grunted. He sweated. He turned bright purple.But the magic was too heavy. It snapped back, sending Sichas flying into a fruit cart. He realized then that he was like a single ant trying to lift a watermelon. He simply didn't have enough magical muscle."I need to work out," Sichas declared, wiping melon pulp off his robes. "Magically speaking."So, Sichas did something dangerous. He cast a spell not to fix the world, but to leave it. He opened a shimmering, swirling door in the air—a Rift—and stepped through, leaving Oria behind.Sichas tumbled out of the Rift and landed on... sound.He wasn't on the ground. He was bouncing on a giant, vibrating drumhead that stretched to the horizon. This was Sonus, the World of Echoes. Here, magic wasn't visual; it was auditory. To cast a spell, you didn't wave a wand; you had to sing the perfect note.Sichas was a terrible singer. His first attempt to conjure a cup of tea resulted in a thunderstorm because he was flat on a high C.But Sichas was stubborn. He stayed in Sonus for ten long years. He learned to hum the fabric of reality. He learned that a low bass rumble could move mountains, and a high falsetto could stitch torn fabric. He grew a long, silver beard and forgot how to speak without rhyming.When he finally felt his voice vibrating with power, he opened a Rift and stepped back toward home.He landed in Oria’s Grand Plaza. He looked at the town clock. Only three days had passed since he left."Excellent," Sichas croaked, his voice booming like a bassoon. "Time dilation. Very convenient."He tried to grab the ley-lines again, singing a powerful ballad of binding. The lines knitted together... for a moment. Then, Snap! They broke again. He was stronger, but not strong enough."Back I go," Sichas sighed. He opened a new Rift.This time, he arrived in Geometria. Everything here was sharp. The clouds were cubes. The sun was a perfect dodecahedron. The grass was made of tiny, green triangles.In Geometria, magic was about precision and angles. Sichas spent twenty years here. He studied under the Triangle Masters. He learned to fold space like origami. He learned that if you stood at a perfect 45-degree angle, you became invisible.He became incredibly disciplined. He even trimmed his beard into a perfect rectangle.When he returned to Oria, another week had passed. The ley-lines were worse now. Gravity was failing every other hour; Mrs. Gable’s cow was currently floating past the clock tower.Sichas combined his singing magic with his geometry. He sang a square song. He hummed a hexagon. He grabbed the ley-lines and wove them into a complex, unbreakable knot.The lines held for ten seconds. Then—BOING—they unraveled, knocking Sichas flat on his back."Oh, come on!" Sichas yelled at the sky. "What does a wizard have to do?"He needed raw, unadulterated power. He needed the impossible.Sichas opened one last Rift. This one was jagged and red. He stepped through into the Maelstrom.There was no ground here, only swirling energy. Lightning the size of skyscrapers crashed around him. This was a world where magic was wild, untamed, and angry.Sichas didn't study here. He survived.He spent thirty years wrestling lightning bolts. He had to catch pure energy with his bare hands and mold it into balls of light. He learned to eat thunder and drink static. He forgot his rhymes. He forgot his geometry. He became a battery of pure force.When he finally ripped a hole back to his own reality, he crackled. Sparks flew from his fingertips. His eyes glowed like headlights.He landed in Oria. Two weeks had passed since he first left. The world was falling apart. The sky was cracking like an eggshell. The ley-lines were thrashing around like angry snakes, tearing the city apart."Right," Sichas said, his voice sounding like a rock slide. "Let's finish this."Sichas floated up into the air. He didn't just grab the ley-lines; he commanded them.He opened his mouth and sang the Song of Sonus, a deep, resonant hum that vibrated the bones of every person in the city. The ley-lines froze, paralyzed by the sound.Then, he used the discipline of Geometria. He visualized the broken world as a perfect sphere, calculating the exact angles needed to stitch the sky back together. Blue glowing triangles appeared in the air, clamping the reality shut.Finally, he unleashed the power of the Maelstrom. He poured the raw lightning he had stored in his soul into the fix. Beams of pure white energy erupted from his chest, fusing the magical lines together, welding the universe shut with heat and light.The sky flashed white. Then gold. Then a calm, perfect blue.Sichas lowered gently to the ground. The toads stopped turning into teapots. Mrs. Gable’s cow landed softly in a haystack. The ley-lines hummed, fixed and flowing perfectly beneath the streets.Sichas was exhausted. He was eighty years older than when he started, though only a month had passed in Oria. He walked over to the fruit cart he had crashed into so long ago."One apple, please," Sichas said."That will be two coppers," the merchant said, eyeing the glowing wizard.Sichas realized he had no money. He thought for a moment, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a perfect, glowing cube of solid thunder."Keep the change," Sichas smiled.Arthur closed the leather-bound book with a soft thud. The room was silent, save for the rain. He looked at his children. Sophie was clutching her blanket, eyes wide. Leo was leaning so far over the railing he was nearly falling out. Max was slack-jawed.Arthur stood up, tucked the book under his arm, and smoothed the blanket over Max."And this has been a bedtime story, good night."He turned to the door, hand on the light switch, when a small voice broke the silence."Whoa dad... that was EPIC!"

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!“A Bedtime Story” Season 2 is coming soon!Mr. Caspian Clutterbuck was the librarian of the Grand Reading Hall, a man so devoted to quiet that he wore felt slippers year-round and communicated primarily through written notes. One blustery Tuesday, engrossed in re-shelving a rare history of turnip production, Mr. Clutterbuck failed to hear the closing bell. The massive oak doors locked with a resounding THUNK, and he realized he was trapped for the night.He sighed, lit a kerosene lamp, and prepared to enjoy the silence. He settled down with his turnips history just as the grandfather clock chimed midnight.BONG! BONG! BONG!As the twelfth chime faded, Mr. Clutterbuck noticed a peculiar sight: the entire non-fiction section began to lift silently off the shelves. The huge volumes on architecture, physics, and marine biology hovered in the air, drifting gently like silent, heavy birds.Mr. Clutterbuck stared, jaw slack. "The Dewey Decimal System must be malfunctioning," he scribbled frantically on a notepad.The floating books, unbound by gravity, began to mingle. The book on Volcanoes started circling the book on Ancient Roman Law, as if arguing. The massive biography of a famous painter bumped playfully against The Complete Guide to Plumbing.A slim volume on Advanced Calculus whizzed past Mr. Clutterbuck’s head, seemingly trying to escape the entire non-fiction block. He reached out and snagged it."Hold on, little Calculus," he whispered. "Why the panic?"The book pulsed gently in his hand. Suddenly, the entire non-fiction section descended on him, trapping him in a soft, cushiony wall of knowledge. A thick medical textbook settled directly on his chest.A low, collective hum seemed to emanate from the books. Mr. Clutterbuck understood: they were tired of being so serious. They wanted a midnight party.He laughed, a silent, joyful laugh, and spent the next hour gently redirecting the book on Bridge Construction away from the poetry section. When the first hint of dawn appeared, the books descended with a soft whoosh back onto their shelves, perfectly aligned. Mr. Clutterbuck, exhausted but thrilled, dusted himself off. From then on, he always stayed until midnight on Tuesdays, ready to chaperone the most serious party in the world.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!“A Bedtime Story” Season 2 is coming soon!Ms. Vivian ran "Vivian's Velvet Views," the most exclusive dog grooming salon in the city. Her most famous client was Patches, a fluffy white poodle whose coat was so perfectly clipped he looked like he was a walking marshmallow.One afternoon, Ms. Vivian was attempting a complicated new scissor technique called the 'Spiral of Sophistication.' She accidentally nicked a small hair follicle near Patches' ear. Instead of bleeding, the tiny spot glowed blue, and the entire white coat of the poodle instantly changed.Patches’ fur didn't just change color; it took on the texture and appearance of a highly detailed, three-dimensional meteorological map. His head was currently a swirling mass of tiny, low-pressure system spirals (deep indigo blue), and a thin, fluffy line of red stretched across his back, indicating a warm front.Ms. Vivian gasped. "Patches! You're forecasting precipitation!"Patches, unaware of his new career as a canine weather station, merely wagged his tail, which was now a fluffy, yellow blob indicating high-pressure sunshine.The first test came when the snooty Mr. Quibble brought in his terrier. Mr. Quibble looked at Patches. "Why is that dog neon green and purple? Is that a style?""That, sir," Ms. Vivian announced dramatically, "is an imminent hail warning."The terrier, who was next in line, instantly started shivering. Thirty seconds later, a sudden, powerful hailstorm hammered the street outside.Word spread like wildfire. Everyone in town started checking "The Patches Forecast." If Patches’ tail was yellow and high, you planned a picnic. If his ears were turning a dark, threatening gray, you stayed home.The day of the Grand Town Fair, Patches’ body was a mosaic of conflicting systems: his left flank showed sunshine, his right showed drizzle, and his tiny pompom tail was blinking red—an emergency warning.Ms. Vivian was terrified. "What does it mean, Patches?"The poodle barked once, then dashed outside. He ran into the fairgrounds and grabbed a microphone with his mouth, his entire body glowing orange with a thunderstorm warning. The crowd panicked, grabbed their umbrellas, and fled.Five minutes later, a massive, unexpected thunderstorm hit. The fair was soaked, but no one was injured. Patches, the Prognosticator Poodle, was hailed as a hero. He returned to the salon, his fur settling into a gentle, calming, mint green—the signal for "all clear and a nap is required." Ms. Vivian decided to forgo the 'Spiral of Sophistication' and stick to plain brushing, but only after checking Patches' ears every morning.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!“A Bedtime Story” Season 2 is coming soon!Arthur was a quiet, dedicated gardener who believed that his plants held deep, philosophical secrets. He longed to know their inner thoughts, perhaps about the sublime nature of photosynthesis or the struggle of the root system.One day, he found a tiny, copper antique teapot at a yard sale. The tag read: "Caution: Plant Translator. May cause existential crises." Arthur bought it immediately.He brewed a cup of mint tea, poured it into the teapot, and held it up to his prize-winning, towering rosemary bush, named George. A low, annoyed voice immediately sounded from the spout."Oh, finally. It's about time, Arthur! That squirrel, Stanley, was here again, burying peanuts right next to my roots! It's terribly vulgar!"Arthur frowned. “George, I thought you would speak of the sun's golden touch!""The sun is fine," George sniffed through the teapot. "But Stanley has terrible taste in nuts. And speaking of vulgarity, the petunias next door? Their color clash is a disgrace to the entire herbaceous border."Arthur walked over to his bed of prize-winning thyme. He held the teapot near it. The thyme’s voice, a high-pitched, whiny squeak, came through: "I need more mulch! And less water! And that daisy is looking at me funny!"The worst was the giant, leafy philodendron in the living room. Its voice, slow and incredibly deep, lamented: "I haven't been rotated clockwise in four days. Four. Days. My lighting profile is ruined. RUINED, I tell you."Arthur realized his plants weren't serene thinkers; they were petty, demanding divas obsessed with soil quality and perceived slights. He spent the rest of the day moving the philodendron exactly 15 degrees clockwise, telling George to calm down about Stanley’s peanuts, and trying to mediate a feud between the thyme and a very innocent-looking daisy.That evening, as the sun set, Arthur placed the teapot back on the shelf. Maybe he didn't need to know the cosmic secrets of the garden after all. It was much easier when the plants just looked pretty and kept their opinions about the neighbors to themselves.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!“A Bedtime Story” Season 2 is coming soon!Leo, a sensible boy who enjoyed routine and tidy outcomes, discovered an old, moss-covered wishing well hidden behind the town library. He leaned over the lip and saw the water shimmering strangely.He decided to test it. "I wish I had a mountain of gold!" he whispered, tossing in a shiny penny.Nothing happened. Leo frowned. He tried again, louder. "I wish I was a famous astronaut!"A loud SPLOOSH came from the well. Suddenly, a large, foil-wrapped object shot out of the water and landed with a soft thud at his feet. It was a sandwich.Leo unwrapped it. It was a perfectly made tuna salad sandwich, but instead of bread, it was constructed between two thick, diamond-shaped waffles."A Waffle-Tuna Astronaut Sandwich?" Leo muttered, utterly confused.He realized the well granted wishes, but only in the form of a bizarrely specific sandwich that somehow related to his desire.Leo decided to be more precise. "I wish I could fly to the moon!" He tossed in a coin.SPLOOSH! This time, a sandwich of dried fruit and peanut butter, constructed entirely inside a hollowed-out, miniature pumpkin, landed next to him. Leo figured the pumpkin represented the moon, and the dried fruit represented space food. It was still a ridiculous sandwich.His third wish was for something simple: "I wish I could have ice cream for dinner!"SPLOOSH! Out came a sandwich made of three layers of cold, sliced cucumber, with a dollop of horseradish in the middle, and topped with a tiny, blinking bicycle light."Cucumber! Horseradish! And a light!" Leo scratched his head. "It must mean: 'Ice Cream (cold and creamy like cucumber), for Dinner (savory like horseradish), so you don't get lost in the dark on your way home (bicycle light)'!"Leo sighed. The sandwiches were completely impractical and baffling, but he was also starting to get hungry. He carefully wrapped up the Waffle-Tuna Astronaut Sandwich and the Cucumber-Horseradish-Bicycle-Light creation. Wishing for a million dollars would probably result in a mayonnaise-sardine sandwich between two twenty-dollar bills.Leo decided to make one last, practical wish. He tossed his final coin and whispered, "I wish I could find the perfect, normal, roast beef sandwich on rye bread with mustard, please, and no silly extras!"SPLOOSH! Out popped a small, neatly labeled sandwich: "Roast Beef on Rye with Mustard." It looked perfect. However, when Leo picked it up, he realized the rye bread was knitted entirely out of gray yarn, and the mustard was a tiny, neatly folded piece of yellow construction paper. The wishing well always had to have the final, silly word.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!“A Bedtime Story” Season 2 is coming soon!Octavia the octopus was not known for her speed, but she was celebrated across the vast, deep canyon for the sheer brilliance of her mind. She considered the annual Sunken Spire Relay a challenge not of muscle, but of magnificent, eight-limbed planning. Her competitors, Marvin the Marlin and Clara the Crab, trained with rigorous, straightforward dedication, relying only on powerful tails and tireless legs. Octavia relied on leverage, hydrodynamics, and pure, unadulterated cleverness.The starting signal—a loud, low rumble from a nearby thermal vent—sounded. Marvin the Marlin instantly became a silver blur, rocketing ahead through the clear blue water. Clara the Crab set off with her typical sideways persistence, a tiny cloud of silt marking her steady progress. Octavia remained motionless for a dramatic moment, surveying the chaotic start. The other racers signaled their disdain for her delay with hurried flips of their tails and indignant clicks of their shells.Octavia, ignoring their disapproval, turned her focus not to the finish line, but to the deep, swirling currents that flowed reliably just above the sandy floor. With four of her powerful arms, she instantly gathered the remaining four, folding her entire body into the shape of a perfectly streamlined, deep-sea kite. She held this posture until a powerful, invisible wave of water rushed past, capturing her unique shape and whisking her away. She was not swimming; she was sailing.The current carried her forward with effortless speed, pushing her past Clara, who paused her scuttling to wave a claw in baffled admiration. Octavia, unable to change direction easily while sailing, steered gently with the tips of two trailing arms, navigating around massive sea sponges and towering coral.But the strong current soon dissolved into slack, open water. Marvin the Marlin was now a distant, shimmering streak near the first marker spire. Octavia released her kite shape and settled onto the seabed, thinking rapidly. Her eyes landed on a large, lethargic school of deep-sea snapper, drifting slowly and peacefully just ahead. A wicked grin seemed to spread across her mantle.With the agility of a master conductor, Octavia reached out four arms, gently wrapping each one around a different, stunned snapper. She applied a slight, insistent pressure, transforming the slow fish into four unwilling, living oars. She used them to propel herself forward in short, jerky bursts, the snappers communicating their confusion with slow, bewildered sweeps of their fins. The sight of the highly motivated octopus riding a sled of protesting fish was enough to slow Marvin the Marlin, who paused his straight-line sprint to execute a baffled double-take.Octavia pulled even with Marvin just as they reached the final obstacle: a dense field of tall, impossibly delicate sea anemones. Marvin shook his powerful tail, ready to power straight through the obstacle, heedless of the consequence. Octavia saw a better way. She extended her two strongest arms back, securing them tightly around a massive, stony pillar of ancient coral. She coiled her remaining body tight, held for a breath, and then released the tension in a single, mighty flex. She flung herself over the anemone field in a beautiful, glittering, eight-legged arc. Octavia landed squarely on the far side of the obstacle and coasted across the finish line, accepting the cheers of the small crowd with a triumphant, graceful wave of two arms. She had won the relay, having never taken a single swimming stroke.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Bradley the beaver was a gifted civil engineer, but he suffered from acute geometric perfectionism. His greatest goal in life was to build a dam that was a perfect, unblemished, mathematically exact circle. All other beavers built messy, rambling, zig-zagging dams. Bradley found these to be a disgrace.His business partner was Murray, a lazy muskrat who was more interested in napping on floating logs than in structural integrity."Murray," Bradley instructed, tapping a tiny, wooden compass on the blueprints, "I need these corner sticks placed at precisely 45-degree radial increments to maintain the integrity of the arc.""Yeah, sure, Brad," Murray mumbled, yawning. He then grabbed a massive, tangled bush and slammed it haphazardly into the water, shouting, "There! Looks good enough!""Good enough is the enemy of perfection!" Bradley wailed. He spent three hours dismantling Murray's sloppy section, only to find the water level had risen.He tried a new approach. He marked the perfect circular outline using smooth pebbles. "Now, Murray, only place sticks between the stones. Do not move the stones!"Murray, hungry and bored, picked up a pebble, tossed it into the water like a skipping stone, and replaced it with a bright orange piece of trash that read, "SODA." He then built his section with sticks sticking out at every possible angle.Bradley, looking at the horrifying, lopsided creation, had a meltdown. "That looks like a badly drawn oval! And is that... a soda wrapper?""It's structural trash," Murray explained. "Modern design. Plus, the circle is an overrated shape. It doesn't allow for comfortable, rectangular naps."Bradley was determined. He pulled out his protractor and started measuring every single stick, pushing and trimming them until the curves started to look right. He worked all night, moving logs with his teeth and his tail, trying to erase Murray's geometric sins.By dawn, the dam wasn't perfect, but it was very close—a beautiful, almost-circular monument of dedication. Murray woke up, looked at the neat, round shape, and frowned."It looks cold," Murray complained. "It's too perfect. I'm going to ruin it." He then pulled out one crucial stick, causing a small, deliberate leak.Bradley glared at him. "Why?""Because," Murray said, tucking himself into the breach, "now I have a small, cozy, personal waterfall sound effect right next to my bedroom." Bradley sighed and decided that if he couldn't achieve perfection, he would settle for a dam that was 98% circular and 2% obnoxious muskrat hammock.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Leo was the official lighthouse keeper of the rocky, wave-battered coast. His job was simple: turn the huge lamp on when the sun went down, and turn it off when the sun came up. The problem was, Leo was deathly afraid of the dark, and he hated turning the light off.Every morning, the grumpy Harbour Master, Captain Guzzle, would call Leo."Leo! The sun is up! Turn off the light! You're wasting electricity!" Captain Guzzle would bellow."But, Captain," Leo would argue desperately, "I detected a sudden onset of... Reverse Fog! It's fog that's only visible during the day! We must keep the light going to cut through the inverted vapor!"Captain Guzzle snorted. "There is no such thing as Reverse Fog, Leo!"The next day, Leo tried a different excuse. "Captain! I spotted a fleet of tiny, Invisible Pirates! They can only be seen when the light is shining directly on them! They're trying to steal the buoys!""Invisible Pirates, Leo? You've been reading too many cereal box labels!"Leo grew desperate. The dark felt like a big, velvet blanket ready to smother him. He needed a truly justifiable reason to keep the light on 24 hours a day.He paced the lighthouse, racking his brain. Suddenly, he looked out at the water and saw a massive, glinting object. It was a giant, polished bronze bell that had been tossed overboard from a sunken ship. It was beautiful, but it was sitting right on the busiest shipping lane."Aha!" Leo cried. "I shall make the light the warning!"He started shining the light not in a sweeping motion, but directly at the bell, creating a brilliant, blinding beacon on the water.Captain Guzzle called immediately, furious. "Leo! What is that colossal flash? You're going to blind the fishing fleet!""I am performing a Visual Anchor Alert!" Leo declared with authority. "There is a monumental, navigational hazard in the channel—a giant, shiny, boat-sinking bell! My light is the only thing preventing disaster!"Captain Guzzle looked through his binoculars, saw the giant, glittering bell, and had to admit Leo was right. "Well, I suppose that’s slightly more sensible than Invisible Pirates. But only until we tow that thing out of the way!"Leo happily kept the light on for three more days until the bell was recovered. He was proud that his fear of the dark had finally led to saving the day, even if he still kept a tiny battery-powered lamp clipped to his ear just in case.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!The morning sun barely dappled the floor of the Pine Needle Den when a cute and beautiful baby bear named Bella first twitched her nose. Today was no ordinary day; today was her birthday!Bella was perhaps the fluffiest bear cub in the entire Whispering Woods. Her fur was the color of cinnamon toast, her eyes twinkled like dewdrops on a spiderweb, and her tiny, curved paws never quite stopped wiggling with excitement. She had been dreaming of this day for weeks, not just for the extra cuddle time, but because of the mysterious pile of wrapped packages resting near the den entrance.“Good morning, birthday girl,” rumbled her Papa Bear, giving her a gentle nudge. “Are you ready for the best day of the year?”Bella squeaked happily and bounded toward the gifts. After a quick breakfast of fresh berries and a birthday song sung in low, comforting growls, it was time for the grand opening. Bella tore the wrappings with careful, curious paws, finding new things to wear and toys to play with. But her Papa and Mama Bear pointed to a large, rectangular box with a golden ribbon. This was the main gift.Inside, nestled in soft straw, was an arrangement of beautiful jars, each one filled with honey. Bella gasped. This wasn't just honey; this was treasure. There were small, round jars with tiny wooden scoops tied to the lid, tall, slender jars with corks sealed in red wax, and even a shimmering glass jar shaped like a little beehive. The honey inside ranged from pale, liquid gold to deep, amber brown.Bella loved the honey, but she loved the jars almost as much. She carefully pulled them out, one by one. She placed the tallest jar on the window ledge, where the morning light turned the pale clover honey inside into a blinding sunbeam. She arranged the dark, robust buckwheat honey jars along the stone hearth, making them look like shiny, polished river stones. Her den, usually just a cozy sleeping spot, was instantly transformed into a sweet-smelling gallery. She stepped back, her nose slightly sticky, and sighed contentedly. She could see them all, gleaming and promising sweetness, no matter where she lay down.Just as Bella was admiring her display, a familiar, smooth voice called from outside.“Happy Birthday, my little honey-pot!”It was Beau, her bear boyfriend. Beau was a bit bigger than Bella, with rich brown fur and a mischievous sparkle in his eye. He was holding a small, woven basket.“Beau!” Bella chirped, rushing out to greet him.“I hope you loved your gifts,” he said, giving her a quick, sweet nuzzle. “But I have the main event planned. Today, we aren't just looking at honey, we're tasting it! I call it, The Sweetest Trip in the Woods.”Beau led Bella by the paw, away from the den and into the vast, leafy forest. Their first stop was near the riverbank, where tall, sweet-smelling lavender grew wild. Here, tucked into a hollow log, Beau pulled out a small comb, dripping with light, aromatic honey. It tasted like sunshine and flowers, bright and delicate. Bella’s eyes widened with delight.Next, they climbed a little hill to a clearing surrounded by ancient oak trees. The air here was deeper, earthier. Beau presented a piece of honeycomb that was nearly black. “This is Dark Forest Honey,” he whispered. “It’s from the tiny wild thyme flowers. It’s rich, like a cozy blanket on a cold night.” Bella sampled it, and a warmth spread through her chest. It was the most comforting flavor she had ever tasted.Their last stop was the highest point in the forest, a rocky outcrop that overlooked the entire woods as the sun began to dip below the horizon. They ate a final dollop of the palest, clearest honey, gathered from the maple blossoms high above the ground. It was smooth and buttery, melting away like a happy thought.As the dusk settled, Beau walked Bella back to her den. She looked around at the precious jars she had arranged, and then at the sweet memory of the day she had just shared. She had tasted the forest, smelled the flowers, and felt completely wrapped in love.Curling up on her moss bed, the jars twinkling in the twilight, Bella hugged her paw. She was sleepy, her tummy was full of the sweetest honey, and her heart was brimming.“What a perfect day,” she murmured to herself. “I’m so glad it was my birthday.” And with a last, happy sigh, the beautiful baby bear drifted off to sleep.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!The village of Whisper Creek was known for its overly dramatic gossip, primarily spread by Mrs. Penelope Petunia, who claimed she knew everything about everyone, even how many raisins were in their oatmeal. However, Whisper Creek had a secret safeguard against dishonesty: every time a resident told a direct lie, all the dogs in the village would instantly turn a vibrant shade of lilac and meow three times.The trouble started during the annual "Best Casserole Dish" competition. Mrs. Petunia, desperate to win, had secretly bought her dish from a professional chef, but she insisted, "I woke up at dawn and stirred every ounce of this myself!"POOF!Every dog in the village—from little Scout the Terrier to massive Duke the Mastiff—instantly turned purple. Duke looked horrified, his great lilac body trembling as he let out a tiny, high-pitched "Meow. Meow. Meow."Mrs. Petunia gasped, clutching her pearls. "Good heavens! The lighting in here is terrible! Those poor dogs look ill!"POOF!The dogs turned a slightly darker shade of purple and let out an even more frustrated, collective "MEOW! MEOW! MEOW!"A small boy, Leo, pointed at Duke. "Look, Mrs. Petunia! Duke's face is lavender!"Mrs. Petunia, flustered, tried one more time. "This casserole? Why, it's an old family recipe passed down from my great-grandmother, who lived on a distant farm!"POOF!This time, the dogs turned neon purple, and their meows sounded less like cats and more like tiny, angry sheep. Duke tried to bark, but only managed a pathetic, "Mee-oow..."Realizing she couldn't out-lie the canine truth detectors, Mrs. Petunia threw her hands up. "Fine! It's store-bought! And I slept until noon! Now please, someone get these poor creatures back to a sensible color!"As soon as she confessed, the purple vanished, and the dogs returned to their normal, sensible brown, black, and white colors, instantly switching back to contented tail wags. Mrs. Petunia didn't win the casserole contest, but she did win the "Most Honest Resident" award for her courage in telling the truth.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Percy was not just any pigeon; he considered himself an elite aerial courier, a highly trained avian professional. The only problem was, Percy was pathologically incapable of flying horizontally. If he was told to go north, he went straight up until he hit the cold, then came straight down three blocks over. If he aimed west, he launched himself into the stratosphere and landed somewhere near a fire hydrant.One day, Percy received the most important assignment of his career: delivering a tiny, top-secret scroll from the Grand Duke of Downtown to the Countess of the Courthouse. The journey was exactly six city blocks straight west.Percy puffed out his chest and took the small scroll tied neatly to his leg. "A simple mission for a master pilot!" he cooed to his worried co-worker, Dolores.Dolores checked her  compass. "Percy, remember, west. Not 'into the weather balloon zone,' just west.""Nonsense! I shall employ the 'Vertical Velocity Variation Technique'!" Percy shouted, which was just a fancy term for flying straight up.He launched himself into the sky. Up, up, up he went, past the tallest skyscrapers, past the small, buzzing drones, until the world looked like a tiny tiled chessboard below."Now for the landing!" Percy yelled against the rush of wind. He tucked his wings and plummeted. He closed his eyes, expecting the smooth landing near the Countess’s window sill.THUMP!Percy opened his eyes. He was sitting perfectly still, but not on a window sill. He was inside an open chimney flue, covered head-to-toe in black soot, holding the scroll. He was six blocks west, but he had achieved it by flying vertically and falling exactly six blocks away from his launch point.Suddenly, a voice echoed down the flue. "My word! It's raining chimney sweeps! And one of them has a letter!"The Countess, who had a peculiar fondness for messy surprises, hauled Percy out, soot and all. She read the scroll, chuckled, and handed Percy a small, crumbly cheese snack. Percy, still entirely black, decided that even though he was a terrible pilot, his 'Vertical Velocity Variation Technique' was clearly a genius strategy for difficult deliveries. He just needed to invest in a tiny pair of goggles.

Please vote for “A Bedtime Story” for Volume One’s Best Local Podcast!Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode! Walter was a dedicated postal worker with a great sense of duty. He handled all the special deliveries for the forest creatures: birthday acorns for the badgers, tiny spectacles for the moles, and urgent messages for the owls. Walter was excellent at his job, except for one thing: he absolutely loathed squirrels. He found them too jittery, too chatty, and far too likely to steal his pen.One chilly autumn morning, Walter was handed a velvet pouch marked "URGENT: Royal Walnuts." The recipient was the most high-energy, demanding squirrel in the entire forest: Mr. Silas Scamper.Walter groaned. "Must it be Silas? He always asks me how many paper clips I have in my pocket!"His supervisor, Mrs. Quince the quail, reminded him sternly, "Duty calls, Walter. These walnuts are essential."Walter trudged through the woods until he reached Silas’s massive, complex nest. He knocked on the tiny acorn door.Silas Scamper burst out of the nest, a blur of gray fur and twitching whiskers. "The walnuts! You have the walnuts! Quick, tell me, Postman Walter, what is the square root of 81 and are you wearing that sweater ironically?"Walter held up the velvet pouch stiffly. "Here is your delivery, Mr. Scamper. Please sign here."Silas snatched the pouch, signed his name with a flourish using his tail, and then his eyes widened in horror. "Oh no! They're the wrong walnuts! These are Royal Walnuts! I need the Majestic Walnuts!""What is the difference?" Walter asked, frustrated.Silas whimpered. "The Majestic Walnuts are exactly 12.4% heavier! If I bury these Royal ones, the gravitational pull will be off, and my nut-map will be inaccurate! It will cause a disaster in my winter planning!"Walter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "So, you need the heavier walnuts.""Yes! Please, Postman Walter, can you hold these Royal Walnuts and run around the nest six times? The friction from your velocity might simulate the necessary extra weight!" Silas pleaded, hopping wildly.Walter looked at the absurd request. He hated squirrels, but he was a man of duty. He took the pouch, ran around the nest six times, sweating and grumbling. He handed the now slightly warmer walnuts back to Silas.Silas weighed them carefully on a tiny scale made of moss. "Perfect! Just the right amount of artificially generated mass! Thank you, Walter! You are a true professional!" Silas gave Walter a tiny, perfectly polished pebble as a tip. Walter felt a faint, reluctant fondness for the utterly ridiculous creature. Maybe squirrels weren't so bad, especially when they were busy worrying about the gravitational pull of nuts.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Winifred was a well-meaning witch who lived in a tower by the river, but her spells had a peculiar side effect: they always, without fail, turned into elaborate musical theater numbers. If she tried to levitate a cauldron, the cauldron would float up while singing a soulful tenor aria. If she tried to create fire, the flame would burst into a rousing jazz ensemble.One morning, Winifred was highly annoyed by a massive, sloshing puddle that had formed right outside her front door. "That puddle is a menace!" she muttered. "I shall turn it into solid cobblestone."She raised her ancient wand, muttered the required words—“Puddle, puddle, cease your slosh, become a stone, and do not wash!”—and zapped the water.The water didn't turn to stone. Instead, the puddle began to shimmer, and a booming voice sang out:“I AM THE PUDDLE! I’M WET AND WIDE AND DEEP! A BRINY, SLOPPY MUDDLE! WHILE ALL THE DRY THINGS SLEEP!”Then, a chorus of tiny bubbles rose up and started tap-dancing furiously on the surface of the water, splashing in perfect rhythm. The spell had created a full-blown puddle-themed Broadway show, complete with kick lines made of leaping water drops.Winifred sighed. "Oh, not again! I just wanted a simple sidewalk!"An old crow named Clive, who often sat on her chimney, cawed knowingly. "Seems like a two-act show, Winnie. That bubble chorus needs more pizzazz."Winifred tried to reverse the spell. “Puddle, puddle, reverse the rhyme, stop the song and turn back time!”Instead of reversing, the spell triggered Act Two: the puddle froze slightly, forming a perfect, miniature ice rink. The lead puddle-performer, now wearing a tiny skater’s outfit made of mist, glided across the ice, singing about the tragedy of evaporation in a high soprano.Winifred knew only one way to end the show early: applause. She clapped her hands together enthusiastically. "Encore! Encore!"At the sound of the applause, the water dancer bowed, the bubble chorus dispersed with a final, fizzy fanfare, and the entire production melted away, leaving just a normal, slightly less annoying puddle. Winifred decided to just build a small wooden bridge over it instead. Some problems couldn't be solved with a catchy tune.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Theodore was a very sensible tortoise who lived in a very sensible pond. He ate sensible lettuce, took sensible sunbaths, and was, overall, incredibly slow. However, inside his sturdy shell, Theodore harbored a lightning-fast secret: he dreamed of being a professional race car driver. He didn't want a car; he wanted to be the car, but faster.Every year, the "Rattle-Can Rally," a highly disorganized and slightly chaotic local race, took place around the edge of the wetlands. Theodore longed to enter, but he was crippled by two things: his natural slowness and a crippling shyness.His only friend, a cynical otter named Ollie, noticed Theodore polishing his shell with a wax meant for actual racing helmets. "Ted, old pal, you're a tortoise. Your top speed is 'leisurely stroll,'" Ollie said, adjusting his tiny glasses."I need speed," Theodore whispered, glancing around nervously. "I need... a turbo boost!"Ollie thought for a moment. "You know, the old gardener, Mr. Grumbles, keeps a high-powered water sprinkler hose by the track. If you could time it just right, maybe the water pressure could give you a little push."Theodore swallowed his fear and entered the rally. His competition included a slightly tipsy duck on a skateboard and a hedgehog on roller skates who kept rolling sideways. The starting pistol fired. Theodore, naturally, took the lead for "slowest starter."As he approached the first turn, he saw the hose lying coiled and ready. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and yelled, "Now or never!" He waddled onto the hose just as Ollie, hiding behind a cattail, cranked the water on full blast.WHOOSH!Theodore was launched forward on a powerful jet of water, sliding perfectly around the corner. He became a blur of green shell and water spray. The duck quacked in surprise; the hedgehog spun into a dizzying circle. Theodore was moving so fast he felt like he was flying!He shot past the finish line, splashing everyone, including Judge Penelope Frog, who awarded him the prize, a giant, shiny, green ribbon. Theodore, still dripping and slightly dizzy, had not only won the race but had also been cured of his shyness by sheer, watery terror and speed. From that day on, he was known as Theodore the Turbo Turtle, and he always won the rally by using the "Hydro-Assist Maneuver."

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Rex Jr. was not a Tyrannosaurus Rex. He was a Microraptor—a tiny dinosaur about the size of a robin, with magnificent blue-black feathers. Rex Jr. considered himself a gourmand, but he had an extremely particular dining habit: he would only eat human food, and it all had to be miniature.Rex Jr. lived in a cozy terrarium in the house of a kind woman named Maya."Maya," Rex Jr. squawked one evening, landing on her shoulder. "Tonight, I require a three-course meal. Specifically, a tiny portion of spaghetti and meatballs, followed by a microscopic slice of pizza, and dessert must be a miniature, single-serving lemon meringue pie."Maya sighed. This was always a difficult request. "Rex Jr., where am I supposed to find a microscopic pizza slice?""You must craft it!" Rex Jr. demanded, fluffing his neck feathers dramatically. "The crust must be made from one ground poppy seed, the sauce from a single drop of strained tomato paste, and the cheese must be a tiny shaving of Parmesan!"Maya started the difficult task. First, the spaghetti. She cooked a single piece of angel hair pasta and, using a pair of tweezers, wrapped it into a neat little coil. For the meatball, she used a tiny crumb of ground beef, which she rolled into a sphere the size of a pinhead.Rex Jr. ate the pasta with great dignity, using a single feather as a fork. "Adequate," he declared. "Now, the pizza. And it must be baked perfectly!"Maya spent twenty minutes creating the poppy seed crust, applying the drop of sauce with a needle, and carefully placing the Parmesan shaving. She placed the entire microscopic creation on a foil chewing gum wrapper and held it over a candle flame for three seconds.Rex Jr. devoured the tiny pizza in one rapturous gulp. "Magnificent! Now, the lemon meringue pie!"This was the hardest part. Maya managed to squeeze a pinprick of lemon juice onto a tiny disk of cracker. For the meringue, she used a single drop of whipped cream, which she toasted with a hot toothpick.Rex Jr. stared at the pie. It was beautiful. He took a bite. "It is exquisite! The balance of citrus and sugar is unparalleled!"Just as he finished, his friend, a common house mouse named Milo, scampered by, dragging a massive, half-eaten potato chip."Hey, Rex!" Milo squeaked. "Why are you eating dust? Want a chip? It's huge!"Rex Jr. looked down his tiny snout. "Milo, I am dining on culinary art. I wouldn't touch that enormous, vulgar piece of starch for all the tea in China!"Milo shrugged and dragged the chip away. Rex Jr. finished his microscopic meal, burped politely, and settled down for a satisfied nap, dreaming of tiny, perfect feasts.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Priscilla the puppy was famous in her neighborhood for her incredibly detailed, organized toy collection. Every squeaky bone, every frayed rope, and every rubber chicken was cataloged, dusted, and stored in a color-coded bin. Priscilla’s favorite, "Commander Chew," a sturdy, navy-blue rubber whale, was kept in a locked velvet case.Priscilla had an excellent memory, but today, she realized something terrible: she had completely forgotten where she buried her emergency bone.The emergency bone wasn't just any bone; it was a dried, polished lamb femur, meant to be consumed only in the event of an asteroid strike or a sudden lack of kibble."Panic Protocol Alpha!" Priscilla barked, setting off a frantic search. She consulted her mental database, which was normally flawless.Location Entry 1: Under the rosebush? Priscilla dug furiously. She found a perfectly organized collection of bottle caps, filed by color. No bone.Location Entry 2: Behind the shed? She raced to the shed. She found a beautifully arranged stack of shiny flat rocks, categorized by smoothness. No bone.Her best friend, a laid-back Dalmatian named Douglas, watched her frantic digging. "Priscilla, calm down. It's just a bone. You bury fifty a week.""This is the Emergency Bone, Douglas! It has sentimental value and optimal marrow density!" she shrieked, pulling her organized toy bins out of the house.Priscilla was on the verge of tears. She had lost her emergency plan. She finally sat down amidst the chaos of scattered toys and dug her face into her paws.As she did this, her paw hit something hard. She looked down. She wasn't sitting on dirt; she was sitting on her dog bed, which was made entirely of shredded fabric and soft stuffing.A tiny, familiar scent wafted up. She pushed the stuffing aside and there, tucked right under the very center of her bed, was the Emergency Bone.But pinned to the bone with a tiny, silver safety pin, was a handwritten note: "If found, chew immediately. You are clearly stressed and need to relax. – P. (Past Self)."Priscilla’s Past Self had left a message for her stressed Present Self! She barked a happy laugh, picked up the bone, and started chewing with great relief. Douglas just shook his head. "She even organizes her own nervous breakdowns." Priscilla, however, was already planning the new bin label: "Emergency Stress Relief Items."

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Willis Weed was a garden sprite who had recently inherited his family’s magical heirloom: the Wand of Whimsical Weather. It was a spectacular wand—ornate, silvery, and humming with power—but it was incredibly difficult to control, especially for a novice sprite like Willis.Willis had only one, simple goal this afternoon: to create a light, cheerful, moisturizing drizzle for his favorite patch of thirsty ferns.He held the wand, focused on the ferns, and tried the simplest weather spell: “Sprinkle, spray, water the ground, let a gentle rain be found!”Instead of drizzle, the wand shot out a massive stream of boiling hot, neon purple lemonade. It missed the ferns entirely and dissolved half of a nearby stone birdbath.Willis gasped, wiping the sticky lemon residue from his face. "Terrible! Too much fizz! Too much citrus!"He tried again, aiming for a cool, refreshing mist. “Mist and dew, soft and slow, let the gentle vapors flow!”The wand responded by firing a concentrated burst of tiny, highly decorative ice sculptures of famous historical figures. A miniature ice Caesar landed right on Willis's head."Ow! Too specific! Too cold!" Willis yelled, tossing the ice Caesar into a bush.He was running out of ideas. The ferns were starting to droop dramatically. He decided to try the most boring weather spell he could think of, hoping the wand would ignore it and just create rain.“Weather, weather, do your thing, I wish for a mild, slightly overcast afternoon with a 50% chance of a completely average, non-noteworthy breeze.”The wand hummed, hesitated, and then slowly began to rotate. It shot out a narrow, focused beam of pure magic directly at the ferns.The ferns didn't get rain; they got tiny, miniature, self-playing silver accordions. The accordions immediately began playing a beautiful, soothing, but slightly depressing folk song.Willis stared. "Accordions? How is that weather?"Suddenly, the mournful music made the dirt around the ferns feel sad, and the dirt started crying. Huge, salty, genuine tears began to stream from the soil, drenching the ferns perfectly.Willis laughed. The unpredictable wand had found the most complicated, emotional route to simple irrigation. He put the wand away, deciding that sometimes, the most confusing magic is the most effective, as long as you can manage to make the ground feel sad enough to cry.

Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Penelope the penguin lived in a chilly, remote landscape where all the other penguins were dedicated to fishing, squabbling, and staring blankly into the distance. Penelope, however, harbored a single, warm-weather dream: she wanted to have a permanent, indoor picnic.She didn't want the outdoors, the cold, or the fish. She wanted checkered blankets, tiny sandwiches, and a pleasant temperature.Penelope found the perfect spot: a large, empty, abandoned storage container that had washed ashore. It was surprisingly well insulated.She spent weeks collecting materials. She dragged in a piece of red and white vinyl—a perfect checkered tablecloth. She used large, round pebbles as plates, and she filled old soda cans with fresh water, claiming it was "Arctic Fruit Punch."The problem was the food. The other penguins only had fish, which was not picnic fare.Penelope approached an enormous, suspicious-looking walrus named Winston. Winston was a master food hoarder. "Winston," Penelope asked politely, "can you spare any tiny, square sandwiches?"Winston grunted, his whiskers twitching. "I hoard fish, kid. Why would I hoard sandwiches?""Because," Penelope reasoned, "if you eat fish inside my cozy, permanent picnic, you will ruin the ambience! Think of the smell!"Winston, who secretly worried about the smell of his hoard, considered this. He didn't have sandwiches, but he did have a giant stash of dried kelp squares.He gave Penelope a pile of them. Penelope took the kelp squares, carefully spread a tiny bit of melted snow over them, and declared them "Seaweed and Snow Sandwiches." Perfect!She invited Winston to her grand opening. Winston squeezed into the shipping container, found a spot on the vinyl tablecloth, and accepted a kelp square."Quite civilized," Winston mumbled, surprisingly enjoying the kelp and the lack of fish smell. "A bit warm in here."Penelope poured him some "Arctic Fruit Punch." The permanent picnic was a huge success. The other penguins watched through the window, confused but slightly intrigued, especially when they saw Winston—the grumpiest walrus in the region—happily chewing on a seaweed square. Penelope knew she had found her true calling: making cold, stinky creatures happy in a perfectly warm, fish-free environment.