A Bedtime Story

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's story is titled The Archives of Alistair, Part 3 of this week's series: The Midnight Museum and the Lost Key.The service elevator descended with a groan of metal and a sound like a thousand angry wasps, finally depositing Eliza onto the third sub-level of the Archives. The air here was cool, dry, and heavy with the scent of old paper and leather. The Archives were a labyrinth of shelving units, housing the museum's documents, records, and the forgotten personal effects of figures connected to its history.Eliza found the section labeled "Finch, A." immediately. It wasn't a file cabinet, but a small, heavy wooden trunk tucked beneath a massive blueprint rack. The trunk was secured with a simple, un-locked latch, another theatrical detail from her unseen challenger.Inside the trunk were bundles of brittle, yellowed letters, a pair of dusty wire-rimmed spectacles, and a leather-bound journal. Lying on top of the journal was the beautiful, oversized silver and obsidian key. The Chronos Scribe key. Eliza let out a long, slow breath of relief, the tension draining out of her shoulders. She grabbed the key, its weight instantly reassuring.But she didn't leave. The journal was open to the last entry, and she knew she had to read it. This was the true 'memory' the note-writer wanted her to discover. The journal was dated the day Alistair Finch vanished.The entry was short and frantic: "The Scribe is too powerful. It knows too much. Its prophecy is true—it will predict tragedy for the city. I cannot allow the board to wind it tonight; they will panic and cause the very disaster it foretells. I have hidden the key, but a single, final message must be left for the one who finds it. The Scribe's work is flawed, but my other creation, the little canary, is not. The canary alone holds the true key to its safety. It must be found and locked away. The Archives. Level Three. Near the trunk. I must flee now."Eliza looked at the blueprint she found in the locket: the clockwork canary. Alistair Finch hadn't been a madman who disappeared; he had been a man terrified by the accuracy of his own creation. He hadn't just hidden the winding key; he had hidden the key to stopping the Scribe.She closed the journal and immediately noticed a small, recessed square in the wall behind the empty space where the trunk had been. She pressed on it, and a tiny, perfectly carved wooden bird cage, no bigger than her hand, swung out on a silent brass hinge. Inside was the clockwork canary, resting peacefully on a little perch. It was exquisite, carved from dark cherry wood and intricately detailed.The midnight hour was upon her. A low, resonant chime began to echo up from the main hall. Eliza knew she only had moments. She had to get the winding key to the Scribe, but more importantly, she had to lock away the canary as its creator had requested.She took the small cage and the journal, secured the trunk, and raced back to the elevator. It was a terrifying, heart-pounding ascent. She burst out onto the main floor and ran toward the central display, the chime of the clock now deafening.Just as the final, massive twelfth chime reverberated through the hall, Eliza reached the Chronos Scribe. She thrust the silver and obsidian key into the winding mechanism and twisted. The gears within whirred to life, and the automaton’s arm began to move. The quill dipped into the inkwell and started to write the week's prediction.As the Scribe finished its single, stark sentence, Eliza quickly opened a small, unused security box that was cleverly hidden beneath the display podium. Following Alistair Finch’s instructions in the journal, she carefully placed the clockwork canary inside, locked the box with the spare security key she always carried, and pocketed the box key.The prophecy on the parchment was exactly what Alistair Finch had dreaded: "Major Financial Ruin." The museum board would indeed panic. But Eliza knew the truth. The canary, the key to its safety, was now safe. She had done the trade: she traded the Clockmaker's secret for the winding key.Just then, a small, black kitten with enormous green eyes padded out from behind the velvet rope, let out a soft meow, and rubbed against her ankle. A simple, silver pendant hung from its collar—a tiny, winged hourglass. The unseen challenger wasn’t a person, but the museum’s clever little cat. It must have found the key earlier, played with it, and used the notes Eliza sometimes left for herself to create the entire, elaborate treasure hunt.Eliza laughed, a genuine, joyful sound that broke the museum's tension. She had the key, the prophecy was written, and she had a new, much more interesting secret to keep.

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's story is titled The Velociraptor's Visitor, Part 2 of this week's series: The Midnight Museum and the Lost Key.The Natural History wing smelled distinctly of ozone, formaldehyde, and the faintest hint of old wood polish. As Eliza stepped through the archway, the colossal skeleton of a woolly mammoth seemed to loom over her, a silent, intimidating guardian. This was definitely a place where "history is frozen." But the 'time still flows' part of the riddle was still nagging her.She moved past the dioramas of prehistoric life, her flashlight beam dancing over the glassy eyes of taxidermied beasts. The usual silence of the museum was amplified here, broken only by the slight metallic click of her footsteps on the polished concrete floor. She was looking for anything out of place, a flicker of movement, a misplaced object, or a clue that could confirm her suspicions about the winged hourglass note.Then, she saw it. In the center of the largest diorama—a dramatic scene depicting a pair of velociraptors stalking a small herd of plant-eating dinosaurs—something was definitely not a preserved artifact. Tucked right beneath the towering fossilized jaw of one of the raptors was a small, slightly rusted, but clearly functional grandfather clock. Its pendulum swung back and forth, a deliberate, metronomic rhythm. A loud, steady tick-tock, entirely out of place among the frozen history."Time still flows," Eliza murmured, the riddle now making perfect, if bizarre, sense. The grandfather clock was counting down.She climbed carefully over the velvet rope and into the diorama, navigating around the carefully placed synthetic boulders. The clock wasn't just old; it looked like it belonged to the same era as the Chronos Scribe, with dark, heavy wood and brass weights visible behind a glass pane. Taped to the glass was a second, equally cryptic note, also signed with the winged hourglass.This one read: "To trade the key, you must show courage. The memory is hidden inside the jaw that frightens the most. Only true curators know the fake from the real."Eliza suppressed a sigh. Whoever this person was, they certainly had a flair for the dramatic. She was standing in a room full of enormous, terrifying jaws, all of which were fossils. Which one was the one that "frightens the most?"She looked up at the velociraptor skeleton that stood immediately over her. Its jaw was clearly a highly detailed, perfect replica; the real, fragile fossil was stored safely away. The teeth, though fake, were terrifyingly sharp. Was this the fake jaw the note referred to? The 'fake from the real' that a 'true curator' would know? The person who left the note had complimented her knowledge.Using the light on her phone, Eliza began to run her fingers along the inside of the raptor's replica jawbone. It was smooth, hard plastic, modeled to look like bone. Then, near the hinge, her finger snagged on a barely perceptible seam. With a gentle push, a small, circular panel in the "bone" clicked inward.Inside the resulting hollow, there was no key. Instead, there was a small, silver locket hanging on a thin leather cord. It was tarnished and worn, but Eliza recognized the unique, stylized "A.F." initials engraved on the front—Alistair Finch. The Clockmaker.She opened the locket. Inside, there was no picture, but a tiny, rolled-up piece of parchment. She carefully unrolled it. It wasn't a memory, but a drawing. A detailed, intricate blueprint for a second, smaller clockwork device—a tiny clockwork canary. Beneath the drawing, in the same ornate script as the note, were four words: "The Archives. Level Three."This was getting more complicated, but Eliza realized she was now involved in a genuine treasure hunt, not just a simple recovery. The key was a lure, drawing her into uncovering a hidden secret about the Scribe’s inventor. The key's trade wasn't for a memory, but for a piece of the story itself.She glanced at the grandfather clock. The hands were moving quickly now. She had maybe twenty minutes left. The Archives were located deep in the basement, three levels down, accessible only by a single, creaky service elevator.Eliza slipped the locket and the note into her pocket. She had to hurry. This wasn't just about saving her job anymore; it was about honoring the legacy of a man she admired, and solving a puzzle left behind by a clever, unseen adversary. With renewed determination, she scrambled out of the dinosaur diorama and sprinted toward the service elevator, the echoing tick-tock of the grandfather clock spurring her on.

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's story is titled The Curator's Catastrophe, Part 1 of this week's series: The Midnight Museum and the Lost Key.Eliza Finch was, by all accounts, a very enthusiastic night curator for the City Museum of Curiosities. Her enthusiasm was, perhaps, slightly misplaced, considering her primary duties involved making sure the exhibits remained motionless and the alarm system remained operational. But Eliza had a boundless imagination, and for her, the museum wasn't a repository of dusty artifacts; it was a silent, sleeping world waiting for dawn. She knew the history of every bronze bust, every chipped Roman coin, and the slightly unnerving stare of the stuffed albatross in the Natural History wing. The most prized possession, however, was in the museum's center: a magnificent, clockwork automaton known simply as "The Chronos Scribe." It was rumored to have been built by a reclusive 18th-century inventor named Alistair Finch (no relation, as far as Eliza knew, but she liked to pretend), and it was programmed to write a single, perfectly accurate prediction about the coming week every Sunday at midnight.This particular Sunday was the night before a major press unveiling of a newly restored wing, and anxiety hummed in the museum's air like a low electrical current. Eliza was doing her final lock-up sweep, a routine she performed with the solemnity of a high priestess. She checked the seal on the Ancient Artifacts gallery and paused by the Chronos Scribe. It was a marvel of polished brass and oiled gears, sitting at a small mahogany desk, a quill suspended over a clean sheet of parchment. The key that wound it was a beautiful, oversized thing, half silver, half obsidian, and it usually hung securely on a velvet hook inside the Scribe's glass display case.But tonight, the hook was bare.Eliza blinked, then rubbed her eyes hard, a sudden, cold wash of dread dousing her enthusiasm. The key, which was heavier and more unique than any other key in the museum's inventory, was gone. It wasn't just a winding key; it was the Scribe's literal on-switch. If the Scribe didn't make its prediction tonight, the museum board would have a collective panic attack. Worse, the key was the only one of its kind, and losing it was grounds for immediate, undignified dismissal.Eliza’s first thought was that she must have been mistaken. She checked her logbook. Yes, she had definitely locked it up after the weekly maintenance crew left. She checked the floor, running her hands under the velvet rope barrier. Nothing. She checked the entire display case, moving the small velvet stands and the informational placard. Still nothing. Her heart began to beat a frantic, uneven rhythm against her ribs.Then, she noticed something odd. Tucked neatly beneath the brass foot of the Chronos Scribe's chair was a small, tightly folded piece of paper. It looked less like an artifact and more like a note left in a hurry. Eliza picked it up and unfolded it, her fingers trembling. The writing was a looping, ornate script, done in charcoal.It read: "A trade must be made. The key for the memory of the Clockmaker's Last Day. Find me where history is frozen, but time still flows."A trade? This wasn't a robbery; it was a cryptic demand. And the 'Clockmaker's Last Day'—that referred to Alistair Finch, the Scribe's inventor, who had vanished without a trace after the machine’s first, terrifyingly accurate prediction. The note was signed with a simple, unsettling doodle of an hourglass with wings.Eliza looked around the silent, cavernous main hall. Who could have done this? And how? The alarms were set. The doors were locked. No windows were broken. This was more than simple theft; it felt like a theatrical, possibly malicious prank, or worse, a message from someone who knew the museum, and its secrets, intimately.She knew she couldn't call the police or her supervisor yet. The loss of the key would be a scandal, and the bizarre nature of the note would only make her look incompetent. She had until midnight—a little over an hour—to retrieve the key."Where history is frozen, but time still flows," she whispered, her voice echoing faintly. She immediately thought of the Natural History wing. It was where creatures from millions of years ago stood in silent dioramas, motionless and preserved. History frozen. But what about 'time still flows?'With a deep breath that tasted of old dust and polished brass, Eliza pulled out her flashlight. The clock in the main hall ticked down relentlessly, each chime a hammer blow against her nerves. She started walking towards the Natural History wing, the beam of her light cutting a lonely path through the darkness, determined to solve the Curator's Catastrophe before the Chronos Scribe’s moment of truth arrived.

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's story is titled The Keeper's Command, Part 3 of this week's series: The Legend of the Unblinking Lighthouse.Leila returned to Stoney Point with the shell locket tucked securely in the pocket of her oilskin coat. The sea was calmer now, the waves sighing rather than roaring, but the silence of the sea felt unnerving, expectant. She ascended the long, spiral staircase for the third time in as many days. The lantern room felt colder than usual, and the Unblinking Light, though still burning, seemed to possess a strained, almost exhausted quality.Leila knew she couldn't just glue the shard back into the lens. The flaw was an integral part of the original crystal. The repair needed to be structural, not cosmetic. She consulted her mother's logbooks again, searching for anything about the lens’s initial installation or its composition. On the very last page of the oldest book, written in faded, looping script by her great-great-grandfather, a former keeper, she found a single, cryptic entry: The crystal mends itself under the Keeper’s Command, but only when the heart of the stone is placed back within its sight.The heart of the stone. Leila looked at the tiny splinter in the shell locket. The shard was the part of the lens that was missing, but what was the heart? She looked around the lantern room. There was a small, ornate pedestal beneath the main lens assembly, a spot where the light beam passed over a single, polished piece of granite before exiting the glass. She had always assumed it was just a support piece.Leila placed the shell locket—the small crystal shard inside—on the granite pedestal. Nothing happened. The light continued to burn with its tired, steady intensity. She picked up the shell locket again, frustrated. The Keeper’s Command. Her mother was the Keeper, but she was hundreds of miles away.Then, she remembered something her mother had once told her, a whimsical explanation for why the light never blinked. "The light doesn't blink because it doesn't need to. It sees with a different kind of sight. It sees intent, Leila, not just ships."Leila closed her eyes, clutching the shell. She didn't have to be her mother; she had to be the person who cared the most for the light. She had to give the Command."Unblinking Light," Leila said, her voice shaking slightly but gaining strength as she spoke. "You are the guide. You are the eye. You are the constant truth in a world that shifts with the tide. You are wounded, but you are not broken."She raised the shell locket above her head, holding the fragment of crystal in the direct, blinding beam of the lamp. The light seemed to pause, and a low, musical hum filled the lantern room, vibrating through the metal floor."I command you to be whole," she finished, her voice steady and clear. "Mend your sight."As she brought the locket down, the tiny sliver of crystal, bathed in the concentrated beam, began to glow with a fierce, pure energy. The light from the main lens focused on the shard. Then, with a sound like a harp string snapping, the fragment shot from the shell locket and flew directly toward the scratch on the main lens.The shard didn’t fill the hole; it dissolved into the larger crystal. The scratch vanished instantly, the surface becoming liquid and then solidifying again into a single, flawless, composite whole. The sound of the hum faded, replaced by the normal, silent integrity of the light. The Unblinking Light was instantly stronger, its beam sharper and more brilliant than before.Leila sighed, a mixture of relief and exhaustion washing over her. She looked at the shell locket, which was now just an ordinary, hollow piece of iridescent shell. Its purpose was fulfilled. The Legend of the Unblinking Lighthouse would continue, saved by the small actions of a girl who listened to a whisper and spoke with the authority of the keeper she was destined to become. Down on the ocean, miles away, a ship captain would simply note that the Stoney Point Light seemed exceptionally clear tonight.

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's story is titled The Glass Thief, Part 2 of this week's series: The Legend of the Unblinking Lighthouse.Leila was not prone to flights of fancy, but she couldn't dismiss the silent shell. The moment the light had stuttered, the shell’s incessant cry had ceased, confirming its connection. She spent the next day poring over her mother's archived logbooks, records of the lighthouse stretching back decades. She learned that the massive lens, a Fresnel lens of the highest grade, was made from a unique composite, rumored to be a single, flawless crystal formed deep underground. It was considered indestructible. Yet, there was the scratch.She held the silent shell, turning it over and over. She noticed a faint, almost invisible seam running along its edge. It wasn't one solid piece; it was a locket. With a delicate fingernail, she pried the halves apart. Inside, nestled on a bed of what looked like crushed sea foam, was a shard of glass—a piece so small it was barely visible, but it shimmered with the exact same inner fire as the lighthouse lens. It was a splinter of the Unblinking Light.The whisper immediately returned, no longer frantic but a steady, resonant voice, like a deep bell buoy. It didn't speak the word "Flicker" anymore; it spoke a name: Silas.Silas lived two towns over, in a narrow, gingerbread-colored house perched on a cliff overlooking a less-trafficked bay. Silas was a retired ship’s chandler, a man who sold supplies to ships. He was known for two things: an impossibly extensive collection of antique glass nautical instruments and an almost phobic fear of light, particularly the concentrated, relentless beam of Stoney Point.Leila hitched a ride to Silas’s town in the back of a fish delivery truck. The chandler's house was as strange as its owner. Every window was draped in heavy, dark velvet, and the paint was peeling like old paper. Leila knocked, and the door creaked open to reveal Silas—a man with deep-set eyes, skin the color of parchment, and a perpetual look of weary disapproval."I’m looking for a piece of glass," Leila said, clutching the shell in her pocket.Silas gave a dry, hacking laugh. "I have enough glass here to rebuild a cathedral, child. Which piece?""A specific one," she insisted. "A sliver. It’s part of a very old lens."Silas’s demeanor instantly hardened. His eyes darted to a shadowed display case in the corner. "You are mistaken. I sell rope, lamps, and brass polish. No museum pieces."Leila brought out the shell locket, opening it to reveal the tiny, brilliant shard. "The Unblinking Light. It was scratched, Silas. I think you took this piece."The old man recoiled, his face pale. "Blasphemy," he muttered, pulling his robes tighter. "That light! That terrible, persistent eye! It never lets you rest, never lets you hide in the comfort of a true, respectable darkness."Silas confessed. Years ago, as a young man, he’d been a novice lighthouse tender. He was a melancholic soul who found true comfort only in the quiet of the night, a quiet the Unblinking Light destroyed for miles around. He had developed a resentment for its constant, demanding presence. He had chipped the original lens, intending to cause a flaw that would force the keepers to replace the light with a modern, blinking one—one that would offer momentary respites of darkness. But he had only managed to take a single, microscopic piece before fear stopped him. He had placed the sliver into an ordinary shell, believing that the moment the original glass was broken, it would whisper the tale of the wound to anyone who listened, becoming a kind of conscience. The scratch was so small it had taken decades for the structural integrity of the composite to finally begin to fail, causing the first flicker.Leila looked at the tiny, innocent shard and the angry, desperate man. "You have to put it back, Silas. It’s a flawless crystal. It needs its perfect structure, or the whole thing will shatter. The next time it flickers, it won’t stop."Silas shook his head, a mixture of guilt and lingering bitterness in his eyes. "I tried to get rid of it. I've thrown the shell into the ocean a dozen times. But it always washes back to my shore. That crystal, child, it wants to be whole. But I can't go near that blinding light! I am cursed by its memory!"Leila understood. The shell had been washed up precisely where she would find it—the only person near the lighthouse who might care enough to listen. She realized her role was not just to find the shard but to be the one to return it. Silas didn't need to go to the light; the light needed to come to her. She left Silas with a promise: she would bring the lighthouse back to its full, unblinking glory.

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's story is titled The Whispering Shell, Part 1 of this week's series: The Legend of the Unblinking Lighthouse.Leila lived on the outermost edge of anywhere, which was precisely where she preferred to be. Her home was a sturdy, squat stone cottage tucked beneath the shadow of the Stoney Point Lighthouse, a tower of ancient white brick that seemed to ignore the fierce ocean winds. Leila was fifteen, mostly quiet, and possessed a deeply serious relationship with the sea, which was probably because her mother, the lighthouse keeper, was almost never home. Mrs. Pendelton, a woman whose laugh sounded like wind chimes and whose hair smelled perpetually of sea salt, was a captain on a long-haul research vessel, gone for months at a time, studying the migratory patterns of extremely large, but gentle, deep-sea fauna.Leila didn't mind the solitude, really. She had her books, the grumpy-but-lovable old dog named Anchor, and the constant, rhythmic churn of the waves. But her truest companion was the lighthouse itself. Stoney Point was unique. Its light, famous for miles around, never blinked. It didn't spin, didn't flash a pattern, it just burned, steady and unwavering, a pillar of pure, white light. It was known, perhaps apocryphally, as the Unblinking Lighthouse. Sailors swore it had a soul, guiding them not just with illumination but with a steadfast sense of purpose.One blustery Thursday, a day when the sea looked like hammered pewter, Leila was exploring the tidal pools near the jetty. Anchor, a lumbering beast of questionable parentage, sniffed suspiciously at a cluster of barnacles. Leila, wearing knee-high wellington boots and a hand-me-down fisherman's sweater, spotted something iridescent tucked beneath a shelf of black rock. It wasn't a piece of glass, nor was it a common shell.It was roughly the size and shape of a perfect, polished scallop, but the shell was made of a material Leila couldn’t identify. It shifted colors, from pale turquoise to deep violet, like captured moonlight filtered through an oil slick. When she picked it up, it was warm to the touch, and a faint, almost inaudible sound issued from it. It was a whisper.Leila pressed the shell to her ear, a silly, instinctual gesture. The whisper resolved into a single, crystalline word, repeated over and over: Flicker... Flicker... Flicker...It sent a shiver down her spine. The word was impossible. The Unblinking Lighthouse never flickered. She took the shell home, placing it carefully on her windowsill where the afternoon sun caught it. All evening, while she read and Anchor snored, the whisper continued, quiet but insistent.The next morning, Leila woke before dawn. The whisper from the shell had intensified. It was frantic now, a tiny, desperate cry: Flicker! Find the Flicker! Driven by a curiosity that felt like destiny, Leila climbed the winding, metal staircase of the Stoney Point Lighthouse. It was a familiar ascent, smelling of ozone and old brass. At the top was the lantern room, the gigantic lens assembly, and the humming, ancient machinery that kept the light perpetually lit.She checked the oil reserves, the massive weights, and the gears. Everything was perfect. The light beamed out, silent and strong. But as she stood admiring its power, she noticed something odd on the main glass lens—a tiny, almost microscopic scratch near the bottom edge. She wiped it, assuming it was sea spray residue, but it was definitely a scratch. It wasn't affecting the beam, but it was new. The lighthouse was constantly maintained; scratches didn't just appear.Leila looked at the whispering shell she had tucked into her pocket. The urgency of the sound seemed to focus on the scratch. Suddenly, the impossible happened. The pure white light—the Unblinking Light—gave a single, minuscule stutter. A flicker, so brief that no sailor at sea would have noticed, but Leila, standing inches away, felt it in her bones. The shell in her pocket went silent.In that moment of silence, the truth hit her. The shell wasn't just talking about a flicker; it was a warning. The Unblinking Lighthouse, the steadfast guide for hundreds of miles, was in danger of failing, and the answer, the key to its integrity, was somehow connected to that iridescent, whispering shell. Leila knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her chest, that her time of quiet solitude was over. She had to figure out what the shell was, what the scratch meant, and how to protect the light.

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.