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.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Agent Pepper Pounce was an elite housecat spy. Her mission was to protect the domestic realm from external threats, like unsupervised dust bunnies and overly loud delivery drivers. Pepper’s current assignment was guarding the kitchen fruit bowl, which held a top-secret artifact: a large, spiky pineapple.The Pineapple, according to Pepper’s intelligence network (a trio of worried hummingbirds), was not safe. It was being targeted by "The Phantom of the Fruit Fly," a villainous insect who only attacked the juiciest targets.Pepper, wearing a tiny, custom-made night-vision collar, sat guard on the counter. She was focused and silent, her tail twitching only with professional concentration.Suddenly, a tiny, high-pitched, buzzing noise filled the air. The Phantom of the Fruit Fly, a sleek, black insect, zipped past the counter."Halt! I am Agent Pounce! Identify yourself and state your intentions toward the designated pineapple!" Pepper hissed, ready to deploy her tactical paw.The Phantom landed delicately on the pineapple's crown. "My intentions, Agent Pounce, are to sample the nectar of this magnificent fruit. It is my destiny!""Destiny is no match for the Pineapple Protocol!" Pepper sprang into action. She tried to swat the fly, but her paw only hit the spiky pineapple skin."Ouch! Retreat! Too much defense!" Pepper muttered, shaking her paw.The Phantom, delighted by the cat's clumsiness, began to dance around the pineapple, landing a quick, daring sip on a juicy segment.Pepper realized she couldn't catch the fly with brute force. She needed strategy. She knew that fruit flies, like all villains, were vain.Pepper cleared her throat. "Phantom! You claim to be the best, yet you target the outside of the fruit? A truly elite fly would breach the defenses and go for the soft, juicy center! If you are so skilled, why are you afraid of the rind?"The Phantom stopped buzzing. His tiny, complex eyes narrowed. "Afraid? I am not afraid! I simply prefer the texture of the outer layer!""A likely story," Pepper taunted. "The center is too sweet for you, isn't it?"The Phantom couldn't take the insult. He launched himself at the center of the pineapple, flying directly down the hollow core created by the removal of the stem.THWUMP!He got stuck halfway down the core, buzzing helplessly. Agent Pounce simply strolled over, placed a large, round lemon over the top of the hole, and sealed the Phantom inside."Protocol complete," Pepper purred, dusting her whiskers. The pineapple was safe, the Phantom was neutralized (and probably enjoying the center, despite himself), and Agent Pounce settled down for a well-deserved, pineapple-guarded nap.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Captain Chester Corvus, a majestic black crow, was the proud owner of a magnificent, stolen treasure map. Chester was a daring adventurer, but he had one critical flaw: he was terrible with directions, often confusing north with "that way, near the shiny rock."To compensate, he acquired a magical compass, but this compass wasn't helpful; it was incredibly opinionated and hated following instructions.Chester tapped the glass. "Compass, old friend, the map clearly indicates we must fly South—toward the weeping willow."The compass needle spun wildly, settling firmly on a direction labeled "Waffles.""Waffles is not a direction, Compass!" Chester squawked, hovering in the air.BZZT! The compass emitted a tiny, indignant hum. “Waffles is a lifestyle, Captain. And I detect strong butter aromas five degrees from True North. Let's go Waffles."Chester ignored the compass and flew south anyway. He immediately encountered trouble: a thick, sticky fog he hadn't planned for. He was lost within minutes."Fine, Compass, you win! Where are we now?" Chester asked, dropping low.The compass needle flickered nervously between "Maybe West?" and "I'm Not Sure, But I Hear Singing.""Singing?" Chester landed on a fence post.Indeed, he heard a faint, off-key singing. Following the compass's bizarre direction ("Singing," which turned out to be northwest-by-slightly-upward), Chester soon spotted a small clearing.The singing was coming from a robin named Ruby, who was desperately trying to serenade a worm but was hitting all the wrong notes. As Chester watched, Ruby accidentally uncovered a small, wooden chest while scratching at the dirt. The treasure!Chester landed triumphantly. "Aha! The Compass of Confusion actually led us to the goal, despite its obsession with baked goods and poor navigation!"The compass needle finally settled on "Right Here." A small, printed message popped up on the glass: "I don't find the destination, Captain. I just find the most interesting path to the destination. Also, I was right about the Waffles."Chester chuckled, opened the chest (it contained a very shiny button collection), and gave the compass a friendly tap. He decided that sometimes, the weirdest directions lead to the most fun treasures.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Mildred the mouse was an explorer, not for mountains or jungles, but for discarded snacks. She lived by the mantra: "One mouse's trash is another mouse's treasure." Her prize possession was a detailed, grease-stained map of the pantry floor, charting every fallen crumb and lost candy wrapper.One evening, while charting a particularly interesting mess of spilled cornflakes, she found a peculiar object: a small, intricately folded piece of parchment tied with a thin red thread. It was not on her map.She unrolled the tiny scroll. It was an ancient, highly dramatic treasure map, drawn in shimmering blue ink, pointing toward the impossible: The Legendary Mystery Muffin of the Top Shelf.Mildred knew this was dangerous. The Top Shelf was miles high, guarded by dust bunnies the size of small pillows, and patrolled by a grumpy spider named Sheldon. But the idea of a muffin—a mystery muffin—was too tempting.She began her climb, using the pantry shelving like cliff faces. She crossed the treacherous "Canyon of Canned Peaches" and avoided the perilous "Mountain Range of Unlabeled Jars." She had to bribe Sheldon the spider with a tiny, stale crouton just to get past the dust bunnies.Finally, Mildred reached the Top Shelf. There, in the center, sat a perfectly preserved muffin. It was enormous—the size of Mildred's whole body—and it pulsed with a faint, golden light.Cautiously, Mildred nibbled a piece. It didn't taste like chocolate, or blueberry, or cinnamon. It tasted like surprise. Like the joy of finding a penny, mixed with the sound of a good joke.Suddenly, the muffin let out a faint sigh. "Oh, thank goodness," a small voice whispered from within the pastry. "I've been waiting for someone to eat me. It's dreadfully lonely being the only mystery in this boring pantry."Mildred giggled and started munching. It turned out the Mystery Muffin was simply a muffin that housed a tiny, bored, talking spirit who only wanted to be eaten and enjoyed. Mildred finished the muffin, promised the spirit she'd search for a Mystery Cheesecake next, and then happily charted her triumphant, crumb-covered route back down the shelf.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Professor Quentin Quill, a brilliant but messy theoretical physicist, had a theory: if he could measure the exact number of waddles a duck performed in a single minute, he could unlock the secrets of the universe. The problem was finding a duck willing to stand still and let a scientist count its feet movements.He found his subject in a grumpy, mottled mallard named Dudley. Dudley only agreed because Professor Quill promised him a lifetime supply of artisanal bread crumbs."Right, Dudley," the Professor instructed, holding a massive, whirring counter. "Begin waddling for science! One minute, starting... now!"Dudley started waddling on a marked piece of concrete. One waddle, two waddles, three waddles... he was fast, but unpredictable. At exactly 37 seconds, Dudley stopped abruptly, mid-waddle, to scratch an itch on his bill."No, Dudley, keep going!" cried Professor Quill.Dudley glared. "A duck has needs, Quill. It's an important variable in the experiment!"Professor Quill frantically looked at his counter. Because Dudley had stopped precisely mid-motion, the machine registered an impossible number: 42.5 waddles.ZZZZZZZT!The laboratory didn't explode. Instead, everything in the room instantly turned backward. The crumbs in Dudley's bowl flew back into the bread bag. The Professor's pen started writing words from right to left, and Dudley found himself walking heel-first."What is this nonsense?" Dudley squawked, trying to move his feet forward, only to walk backward into a wall."It worked!" Professor Quill yelled, delighted, as his own beard started growing in reverse. "We've created a temporary Reverse Reality Loop!"Dudley sighed. "Does this mean my artisanal crumbs are getting un-made?"The Professor quickly calculated how to stop the loop. "Dudley, you must complete the motion! I need exactly half a waddle, forward!"Dudley, struggling against the backward pull of reality, managed to push his foot forward just a tiny bit. ZZZT! The room snapped back to normal. The counter now read 43 waddles. The pen wrote left to right. Dudley was relieved, but his bread crumbs were suspiciously older. Professor Quill, however, had his answer. The secret of the universe wasn't in the waddle, but in the half-waddle—the point of uncertainty between here and there.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Amelia was a young girl who ran a tiny convenience shop on the edge of town. Her most popular item was her colossal, foot-long submarine sandwiches. However, Amelia had a secret: her subs had begun talking to each other.It started subtly. Amelia would put two sandwiches on the counter, and she'd hear faint whispers."Did you hear about the Rye Bread who went on holiday? Very dry, apparently," a Turkey and Swiss sub would mutter to a Ham and Cheddar sub.The problem was that the conversations only started when the sandwiches were touching, and they grew louder the longer they conversed.One busy afternoon, Amelia made a massive, ten-sandwich order for the local library's annual book sale. She stacked them neatly.The resulting sound was deafening. The ten subs were arguing fiercely about which type of lettuce had the most political integrity."Romaine is far too crunchy! No subtlety!" bellowed the Italian sub."Iceberg is refreshingly non-committal!" shrieked the Veggie sub.Amelia tried to ignore the noise, but a customer, Mr. Peterson, pointed at the stack. "I believe your phone is ringing, Amelia. Or perhaps a tiny chorus of angry tenors?"Amelia smiled nervously. "Oh, that's just... the steam, sir. Making a little... culinary chime."She knew she had to separate them. If the sandwiches kept talking, they would all go stale from over-excitement and argument.Amelia rushed into the back room and returned with ten sheets of thick, rigid cardboard. She wedged a piece of cardboard between every single sandwich, separating the bread and the conversation partners.Silence. Blessed, sweet, beautiful silence.Mr. Peterson looked puzzled. "Why the cardboard walls, Amelia? Are they fighting?""No, sir," Amelia explained, carefully wrapping the now-silent subs. "I call this the 'Active Listening Barrier.' It prevents structural collapse and ensures the lettuce remains fully present and engaged."She handed the quiet box to Mr. Peterson, who was thrilled. Later, Amelia realized the sandwiches hadn't stopped talking; they were simply whispering so softly that the cardboard absorbed the sound. She leaned close to the last sub in the stack—a quiet Roast Beef—and heard a tiny, contented sigh."Ahhh. Finally. Alone with my pickles. They never argue."
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Mortimer the mouse was a serious scientist. He didn't just nibble cheese; he analyzed its protein structure. He didn't just run on a wheel; he measured his rotational velocity. His life was devoted to measurement and fact.One night, Mortimer was looking through his telescope (a repurposed toilet paper tube with two bottle caps for lenses) when he saw it. Floating near the very top of the sky, where the moon usually was, was a giant, shimmering, blue and green marble."Impossible!" Mortimer squeaked, dropping his cheese-analysis chart. "The moon is made of lunar rock! This is clearly made of glass and swirly paint!"He immediately woke his skeptical roommate, a small chipmunk named Chipper."Chipper! The moon is gone! It's been replaced by a child's toy!"Chipper, half-asleep, simply grumbled, "Mortimer, it’s probably just a cloud." (He didn't know why he said it, but it sounded logical.)"Nonsense!" Mortimer yelled. "I must investigate!"Mortimer gathered his gear: a magnifying glass, a ruler, and a small, slightly squashed fig Newton for energy. He spent the entire night climbing to the highest point he could find—the roof of the town's oldest water tower.By the time he reached the top, the sun was just beginning to rise. He looked up, ready to confirm his discovery.There was the moon! It was a familiar, gray, pockmarked, very un-marbley moon."Wait a moment," Mortimer muttered, rubbing his eyes. He looked down and saw a young boy, Sam, sitting by the water tower's base, carefully unwrapping a giant Jawbreaker candy—blue and green and perfectly spherical—that looked exactly like the marble he had seen."Good morning, Professor Mouse!" Sam called up, holding the candy up in the light.Mortimer looked from the boy to the Jawbreaker, and then back up at the moon."Ah," Mortimer said simply. "A case of extreme atmospheric refraction combined with an overly-sugared lens effect. You see, the light from the rising candy, when viewed through the telescope tube, perfectly superimposed onto the moon's location, making it appear...""Like a giant marble?" Sam finished, taking a huge, noisy lick of the candy.Mortimer sighed, completely deflated. "Yes. Now, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my lab. I have a new theory: The scientific property of desire can sometimes distort observation."He carefully descended the tower, feeling a bit silly but much wiser. He even accepted a small piece of the giant, moon-sized candy from Sam. It was delicious, and a perfect reminder that sometimes, the simplest answer is the correct one, even if it involves a very large piece of candy.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Percy the parrot lived in a very grand, but also very dull, mansion. His owner, Mrs. Penelope Featherbottom, was lovely but believed firmly that parrots should be seen and not heard—unless, of course, they were reciting Shakespearean sonnets. Percy, however, had a deep, burning passion for stand-up comedy. Every evening, after Mrs. Featherbottom had tucked herself into bed, Percy would carefully perch on the antique mahogany mantelpiece.He’d wait for the mansion’s grandfather clock to strike midnight. Clang! Clang! Clang!"Ahem," Percy would clear his throat, adjusting his tiny, imaginary bow tie. "Good evening, folks! Tough crowd tonight? I guess that means I’ll have to wing it!"His audience was small but appreciative: a dust bunny named Linty, a slightly cracked ceramic squirrel, and occasionally, a nervous-looking mouse named Chester. Percy's jokes were famously terrible."Why don't scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything!"Linty the dust bunny would roll with silent laughter, scattering a little fluff. Chester the mouse, who was trying to sneak a crumb of cheese, would freeze mid-nibble, not sure if he was allowed to chuckle. The ceramic squirrel just stared with its painted, slightly judgmental eyes.One night, Mrs. Featherbottom couldn't sleep. She heard a peculiar squawking and a muffled sound she couldn't quite place. She crept downstairs. As she reached the parlor door, she heard Percy deliver his latest gag:"I told my suitcase I didn't want to go to the airport. Now I'm dealing with a lot of emotional baggage!"Mrs. Featherbottom peeked in. She saw Percy preening, the dust bunny shaking, and the mouse wiping a tear (of fear or amusement, it was hard to tell). Instead of being cross, she did something unexpected: she giggled. A real, hearty, unexpected giggle.Percy froze, mortified. "Oh no," he muttered.Mrs. Featherbottom stepped into the room. "Percy," she said, her eyes twinkling. "That was... delightful. But you know, darling, I think I have a better one."Percy was stunned, but he leaned in. "Do tell, Mrs. F."She leaned closer. "What do you call a fish with no eyes? Fsh!"Percy burst out in a laugh so loud it woke up the neighborhood tabby cat. From that night on, the midnight stand-up routine had a new, much larger, and very enthusiastic audience member.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Officer Chester Chump was the Chief of Police in the tiny, sleepy town of Little Twaddle. His biggest case last year was the unauthorized use of a traffic cone as a flowerpot. His office was quiet until the day Mrs. Petunia Post-it stormed in, holding an empty suitcase."It's a tragedy, Officer!" she cried. "A spoon-tastrophe! My favorite suitcase, full of my finest spoons, is gone!"Officer Chump raised a nervous eyebrow. "Spoons, ma'am?""Yes! I was taking them to a convention—a Spoon Convention! There was my special dessert spoon that looked like a tiny giraffe, and my rare soup spoon with the wobbly handle!"Officer Chump, a man who believed in thorough police work, got to his knees and examined the floor. He found a tiny trail of glitter and sugar crystals leading toward the town park."A-ha!" he declared. "This looks like a case for... Detective Chump!"The trail led him straight to the park's central fountain, where a small, eccentric old man named Professor Phileas Fidget was sitting on a bench, looking very pleased with himself.The empty suitcase was right beside him."Professor Fidget!" Officer Chump boomed. "You are under arrest for the Grand Spoon Caper!"Professor Fidget looked up, an expression of pure, innocent confusion on his face. "Spoons? Oh, my dear boy, I have no idea what you're talking about. I merely borrowed this convenient carrying case.""Then where are the spoons, sir?"Professor Fidget pointed a wobbly finger toward the fountain. Officer Chump looked. The fountain was not spraying water; it was spraying a magnificent, sparkling, slightly messy stream of miniature, multicolored ice cream sundaes. And propelling the ice cream? The spoons! They were all lined up inside the fountain's nozzle, acting as a hilarious, chaotic ice cream spray machine."They were bored!" the Professor explained. "They wanted to feel useful! Especially the wobbly-handled soup spoon—he was born to spray rocky road!"Officer Chump stared at the tiny giraffe spoon, which was expertly slinging a perfect parabola of vanilla soft-serve. He realized it was the most fun he'd ever seen spoons have."Right," Officer Chump said, sighing and pulling out his notepad. "The charge is now... Unlicensed Ice Cream Projection with a Minor Misuse of Cutlery."He helped the Professor carefully dismantle the spoon-fountain, and Mrs. Post-it was reunited with her unique collection. She forgave the Professor immediately, provided he give her a free ice cream sundae from his magnificent, albeit criminal, invention.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Agnes the goat had a green thumb, a soft heart, and a huge appetite. She loved to garden, but she was so good at it that her plants grew enormously, and instantly.Agnes lived in a small, fenced-in yard right next to Mrs. Wigglet’s prize-winning vegetable patch. Mrs. Wigglet kept her fence tall, because she knew Agnes had a plant problem.One morning, Agnes decided to plant a single carrot seed. She dug a hole, dropped the seed in, gave it a nice pat, and then gave it a single, gentle, supportive "Maaah!"WHOOMPF!The carrot didn't just grow; it erupted. A single, massive, bright orange carrot, the size of a small car, burst out of the ground, completely filling Agnes's tiny yard and gently pushing her shed a foot to the left. The carrot leaves tickled her ears."Oh dear," Agnes bleated. "A slight overachieve."Mrs. Wigglet came running. "Agnes! What have you done? My prize-winning turnip!""Don't worry, Mrs. Wigglet! I've only grown a carrot! It's perfectly contained in my yard!"But the carrot was so big, it was causing a problem. It was blocking the sun for all of Mrs. Wigglet's plants, and the weight of the massive root was shaking the very foundations of her shed.Agnes tried to pull it out, but it didn't budge. She nudged it with her horn. It didn't budge.Suddenly, a brilliant idea struck Agnes. "I can’t pull it," she said. "But I can eat it!"Agnes took a deep breath and began to munch. She munched and munched and munched. She munched for an hour, then two. She munched her way through the top half, then the middle. Carrot shavings flew everywhere.By the time she was done, all that was left was a small, car-sized hole in the ground and a very, very satisfied goat with an impressive orange beard.Mrs. Wigglet stood by the fence, speechless. "You... you ate the whole thing," she whispered."It was delicious!" Agnes declared, wiping her mouth. "And now your turnip has its sun back! A perfect problem-solving snack!"Mrs. Wigglet shook her head, but she couldn't help but smile. "Well, Agnes. I suppose that's one way to deal with a supersized vegetable." She then had a thought. "Do you think you could plant a few potatoes next week? We are running low."Agnes's eyes lit up. "With pleasure!" she said, already reaching for her gardening trowel.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!In the town of Port Swizzle lived a dog named Buster, a Beagle with a nose so powerful it could detect a single drop of spilled milk from three towns away. Buster wasn't a police dog, but he took his role as Neighborhood Snack Inspector very seriously.One sunny Tuesday morning, a crime occurred. Mrs. Quibble, the kindest lady in town, had left a single, enormous blueberry muffin cooling on her windowsill. When she returned from watering her prize-winning petunias, the muffin was gone. Only a few tell-tale crumbs remained."Buster! We have a case!" Mrs. Quibble cried.Buster's tail began to spin like a propeller. He sniffed the windowsill. Blueberry, butter, sugar... and a faint whiff of... trombones?He followed the scent trail. It led him across the freshly mowed lawn, past the bubbling fountain, and straight up to the front door of Mr. Clarence Pumble, the town’s only professional trombone player.Mr. Pumble opened the door, a look of profound innocence plastered on his face. "Yes, Buster? Can I help you?"Buster didn't bark. He simply pointed his very damp, very determined nose at the corner of the room, where a large, shiny trombone stood.Mr. Pumble sighed dramatically. "Oh, very well. It's not me, Buster. It's the trombone! It gets lonely! It's an emotional eater!"He sheepishly tilted the trombone. A single, squished, slightly blueberry-stained muffin tin liner tumbled out, followed by a shower of crumbs.Buster looked at the trombone player. Mr. Pumble looked back. "The acoustics are better when it’s full of sweets," he whispered conspiratorially. "Don't tell Mrs. Quibble."Buster gave a silent, judgmental huff, then nudged Mr. Pumble's hand. Mr. Pumble understood. He hurried to the kitchen and returned with a plate of fresh scones, which he promptly shared with his furry, four-legged detective. As for the trombone, it was put on a strict diet of only musical notes until it learned to control its appetite.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Humphrey was a very nervous hamster who loved to hike. He loved the fresh air, the feeling of adventure, but he absolutely despised the idea of getting his whiskers wet. It was an irrational fear, but a powerful one.One sunny Saturday, Humphrey was hiking along the bank of the winding River Glimmer. He was trying to jump across a particularly wide, muddy section when he slipped."Oh, calamity!" squeaked Humphrey, teetering precariously on the edge. He was moments away from a full, horrifying, whisker-soaking sploosh!Just then, a long, gray shadow fell over him. A tall, elegant heron named Harriet landed silently on the bank. Harriet looked down at the panicking hamster."Trouble, little one?" Harriet asked, her voice calm and surprisingly deep."My whiskers!" Humphrey wailed. "They will be soggy! I will be disgraced! I cannot be a wet-whiskered adventurer!"Harriet considered this. She bent her long neck and picked up a large, dry lily pad that was lying nearby. She gently placed it in the middle of the mud puddle."There," she said. "Use that as a stepping stone."Humphrey looked at the lily pad. It was a good idea, but it was still very close to the mud.Harriet sighed. She then bent down again and very carefully placed her own enormous, flat foot right next to the lily pad. "Here," she said. "Now you have a dry-foot bridge."Humphrey hesitated. He took a giant leap and landed safely on the heron's foot. He then took another tiny hop and landed on the lily pad. He then scurried the rest of the way across the dry bank, entirely mud-free.He turned back. "Harriet, you saved my whiskers! Thank you!"Harriet smiled, but then she looked down at her foot. She had completely forgotten that her foot was still in the mud. She lifted it up."Oh dear," she said, looking at the large, perfectly-formed, muddy footprint. "It seems I have traded a soggy hamster for a muddy heron."Humphrey, safe and dry, burst into laughter. "Don't worry, Harriet!" he chirped. "I'll fetch you the best, driest, most whiskery-safe piece of moss I can find to wipe that off!"Harriet chuckled, shaking her head. From that day on, Humphrey hiked with a small, dry piece of lily pad on his back, and Harriet occasionally stopped by to trade a little help for a good, clean joke.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Chester was a talented musician, but he had a peculiar problem. His favorite wooden flute, inherited from his slightly eccentric Great-Aunt Mildred, didn't play musical notes. It played food.Chester was trying to practice for the annual town concert. He put the flute to his lips and blew a high, clear note.Ploink! A single, perfectly ripe grape popped out of the end and landed in his lap.He tried again, a cheerful, upbeat trill. Piff! Paff! Poff! Three small, crispy tater tots shot across the room and bounced off the wall."This is impossible!" Chester moaned, wiping a smear of melted butter off his sheet music. "How can I play a soaring sonata when all I get is a starchy serenade?"His best friend, a little girl named Lucy, was watching. She loved watching Chester practice, especially when he played fast, lively tunes. "Try a very long, low note, Chester! A B-flat!"Chester took a deep breath and blew the lowest, longest note he could manage. The flute vibrated deeply. WHOOOMPH! A magnificent, multi-layered jelly roll—raspberry and lemon swirl—oozed out of the flute and landed with a soft thud on the rug."Amazing!" Lucy cried, already reaching for a slice."But the concert is tomorrow!" Chester protested. "I'm supposed to play 'Ode to the Open Meadow,' not an appetizer arrangement!"He decided to give it one last try. He thought very hard about the sound of a flute. A high, thin, sweet, pure sound. He pursed his lips and blew a single, hopeful, sustained note.SHWOOP!Out of the flute, instead of a note, a single, perfectly formed, tiny sugar cookie—shaped exactly like a miniature flute—flew out."It's getting smaller!" Lucy observed."I think I've finally cracked the code," Chester grinned. "It doesn't play music, but it plays what I think about! That note was so clean, my brain gave me a cookie that looked like a musical instrument!"He thought about a drum solo. PUM-chick-a-PUM! The flute spat out a small, crunchy pickle (the only salty, crunchy thing his brain could conjure).Chester had an idea. He looked at Lucy. "The town concert is going to be hungry. I may not play music, but I can certainly play a post-concert feast!"The next day, the crowd was confused when Chester simply stood on stage, blowing his flute while a steady stream of small tarts, mini-muffins, and chocolate chips rained down onto the stage. But by the time he played a grand finale of a towering three-layer sponge cake, the audience was cheering and happily devouring the most delicious, and most unusual, musical performance ever.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Professor Quibble was an inventor, but not a very good one. His greatest creation was a vacuum cleaner named Vinnie. Vinnie was programmed with state-of-the-art AI, but Professor Quibble accidentally wired the 'Performance Mode' to an old theatre script he'd found. The result? Vinnie cleaned, but only with extreme dramatic flair.Vinnie wouldn't just glide across the floor. He'd sweep into the room and stop, the whirring of his motor a theatrical sigh. "Oh, cruel, cruel dust!" Vinnie would lament, his mechanical voice booming through the mansion. "You plague my existence! Must I forever chase your tiny, fleeting shadows?"The professor's house cat, Mittens, usually napped peacefully, but Vinnie's routines made napping impossible. Mittens would watch, annoyed, as Vinnie approached a dust bunny."Behold!" Vinnie would cry, his suction power reaching its peak. "The villain of this tragic tale! I shall consume you! Not with malice, but with a weary sense of duty!" And WHOOSH, the dust bunny was gone.One afternoon, Professor Quibble dropped his keys behind the sofa. "Vinnie, old friend, could you just retrieve my keys? They're right there."Vinnie rolled to the spot and dramatically paused. "The shadows lengthen..." he whispered, his red light flashing ominously. "The object of desire lies beyond the velvet precipice! I must brave the unknown... the cushion-covered abyss!"Mittens, who was tired of the theatrics, saw her chance. She quietly batted one of the keys just out of Vinnie's reach.Vinnie saw the key move. He let out a mechanical wail of despair. "Alas! Fate itself conspires against me! The prize slips through my grasp! I am but a hollow shell of a cleaning appliance!"He began to recite a long, rambling monologue about the futility of cleaning, until Professor Quibble, laughing heartily, simply reached behind the sofa himself."Vinnie, my boy," the professor said, patting the top of the machine. "Maybe just a little less drama next time, eh?"Vinnie's motor sputtered. "As you wish, my Lord," he replied in a deep, booming baritone. "The show... must go on." And with a final, unnecessary bow, Vinnie zoomed off to dramatically chase a stray potato chip under the dining room table.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Penelope lived in a very ordinary house with a very ordinary garden. The only thing extraordinary about Penelope was her passion for oddity. She collected buttons with three holes, spoons with slightly too-long handles, and miniature rubber ducks that only floated sideways.One morning, while inspecting her tomato plants, Penelope discovered a pineapple. This was odd because pineapples don't grow in her climate. This was extra odd because this pineapple was covered in bright, fluorescent polka-dots.Penelope picked it up. It didn't smell like a pineapple; it smelled faintly of fresh-cut grass and pencil shavings."Well, hello there, little anomaly," she said to the fruit.She took it inside and placed it on her kitchen table. Her neighbor, Mr. Splinter, who believed everything in the world should be perfectly normal and beige, peered through her window."Penelope!" Mr. Splinter called out, his face twitching. "Is that... a spotty pineapple? Pineapples are yellow! Get rid of it! It's upsetting the natural order!"Penelope smiled sweetly. "But Mr. Splinter, it's a polka-dot pineapple! It's magnificent!"She tried to cut it, but her knife wouldn't go through the tough, brightly-patterned rind. She decided to keep it as a houseguest.That evening, as Penelope was reading a book, the pineapple began to gently hum.HMMMMMMMM-bloop-HMMMMMMM.Penelope listened. It sounded like a tiny, enthusiastic choir singing inside a glass jar. She put her ear closer."Excuse me," she whispered. "Are you singing?"The pineapple stopped humming. A tiny, high-pitched voice came from inside. "Well, yes! But I'm terrible at it! I'm trying to practice my tenor part!""Oh, you have a lovely tenor voice," Penelope lied kindly.The pineapple sighed. "Thank you. But I should warn you, I'm not a real pineapple. I'm actually a small, slightly confused robot scout sent from a planet where all fruit is polka-dotted. We use the humming to charge our batteries.""That's wonderful!" Penelope exclaimed. "But why did you choose a pineapple disguise?""My mission report said to blend in with the most exotic, tropical flora," the voice said. "I clearly misunderstood the local environment."Penelope laughed, a full, warm sound. She spent the rest of the evening listening to the robot scout pineapple practice its singing, completely delighted by her new, spotty, humming, slightly-confused friend. Mr. Splinter, meanwhile, was at home re-painting his fence an even more boring shade of beige.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Spencer the squirrel was a creature of routine: up at dawn, two nuts for breakfast, and an hour of vigorous tail-brushing. But today, something was dreadfully wrong. When he tried to greet his friend, Penelope the pigeon, instead of a cheerful "Good morning!" what came out was a high-pitched, completely sideways squeak that sounded a lot like a rusty bicycle wheel."Did you just… talk in morse code?" Penelope cooed, tilting her head.Spencer tried again, clearing his throat dramatically. "I'm having a problem with my SQUEAK!" The squeak was followed by a pop sound. He tried to explain his predicament, but everything he said came out as a mix of whistles, honks, and sounds only a foghorn would be proud of.He visited Professor Algernon, a wise old tortoise who lived in a hat box and collected facts. "Professor," Spencer squeaked, pointing frantically to his mouth.Professor Algernon slowly lowered his tiny spectacles. "Ah, yes. A classic case of Vocal-Shift-i-cus Nutterus. The tongue of the speaker has become slightly disconnected from the brain's speaking center and is sending all the words out sideways.""Is there a cure?" Spencer managed to honk."Indeed," said the Professor. "You must consume three things that are known for their straightness: a perfectly straight pine needle, a very flat pancake, and a yawn that travels straight up to the sky."Spencer went immediately to work. The pine needle was easy. He convinced a busy beaver to make him a perfectly flat pancake. Finally, he looked up at the sun and gave the biggest, stretchiest, most wonderfully straight yawn he could manage. His mouth opened wide, the yawn traveled all the way to the blue sky, and when he snapped his jaw shut, he said, in a perfectly normal, cheerful voice: "Hello!""It worked!" chirped Spencer, doing a little happy jig. Penelope was impressed. Professor Algernon simply adjusted his spectacles and made a note: Perfectly flat pancakes are also delicious.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!Ms. Juniper was the head librarian at the Oakwood Public Library, and her most cherished secret was the existence of the "Story Whisperer." This tiny, magical creature, with wings like translucent pages and a voice like rustling leaves, lived in a cozy nook behind the atlas section. The Story Whisperer’s job was to flit through the library at night and whisper forgotten tales to the books, helping their words come alive for the readers the next day.One morning, the library was strangely quiet. The books felt flat, and the air was devoid of the magical hum that usually filled the room. Ms. Juniper knew something was wrong. She looked in the Story Whisperer's nook, but it was empty. She was a librarian, but she was also a detective at heart. She put on her thinking spectacles and began her investigation.The first clue was a single, sparkling feather. It led her to the biography section, where she found a note tucked inside a book about a famous adventurer. The note, written in a tiny, scrawling hand, said, "Gone to find a grander adventure! A 'real' story!" Ms. Juniper gasped. The Story Whisperer, whose name was Pipkin, had left!Her investigation led her on a humorous chase through the library. In the children's section, she found a picture book about pirates that had been half-heartedly whispered. She could tell because only the first half of the book's pictures had come to life; the second half was still as flat as a pancake. It seemed Pipkin had been in a hurry. Next, she found a book on mythology where the mythical creatures were all in the wrong places. A unicorn was in a story about dragons, and a griffin was trying to ride a bicycle. It was utter chaos.Finally, she found Pipkin in the travel section, looking a little defeated. He was trying to whisper to a large book about the Antarctic, but the words were just too cold and flat. "I wanted to find a new adventure!" Pipkin said, pouting. "But these stories are so big, they won't fit inside my whispers!"Ms. Juniper smiled. "Pipkin, the grandest adventures are often the smallest ones. They're waiting right here, in every single book. You're the one who gives them life." She gently held out her hand, and Pipkin landed on her finger, a tear in his tiny eye.Back in his nook, Pipkin started to whisper to all the books again. Soon, the library was filled with the familiar, happy hum of magical stories.
Visit the “A Bedtime Story” show website to submit your story ideas for a future episode!There once was a scarecrow named Stanley who was terrible at his job. He was not scary in the slightest. He wore a brightly colored patchwork coat, had a big, friendly grin drawn on his face, and his straw hat was always tipped at a jaunty, welcoming angle. The birds knew him, and they weren’t afraid. In fact, they loved Stanley. They would land on his shoulders, peck at the buttons on his coat, and listen to the quiet, gentle whispers he offered them.“The corn is ripe today,” Stanley would whisper to a little sparrow. “Be careful of the field mice; they’re a bit grabby.”The farmer, a kind but frustrated woman named Ms. Penny, would sigh as she looked out at her field. “Stanley, what am I going to do with you?” she’d say. “You’re a wonderful scarecrow, but you’re just not very good at being a scarecrow.”Stanley would just sway gently in the breeze, a group of birds perched on his shoulders like he was a feathery coat rack. He couldn’t help it. His purpose was to scare, but his heart was just too friendly.One day, a crow came to the field with a terrible problem. He had a shiny, sparkly object—a tiny, misplaced key—stuck in his beak. He had found it and couldn't get it out. He was desperate and flew to the one being he knew he could trust: Stanley.Stanley listened to the crow’s frantic caws. He slowly moved his straw hands, a little clumsy but gentle, and carefully nudged the key from the crow’s beak. The crow cawed in relief and flew away, leaving the key on the ground.Ms. Penny saw the whole thing from her porch. She came out to the field, looking at Stanley, then at the key. She looked at the other birds, perched on Stanley's hat, not bothering to take the corn. They were just sitting there, singing their little songs. Ms. Penny, a very clever farmer, realized something. Stanley wasn't a scarecrow; he was a friend. He wasn’t scaring the birds away, but he was making them happy, and maybe a happy bird is a well-fed bird who doesn't need to steal all the corn.Ms. Penny picked up the key. "Stanley, you're not an ordinary scarecrow," she said. "You're a 'care-crow'!" She hung a little sign on him with that name. And from that day on, Stanley the Un-Scarecrow wasn’t a failure; he was the proud and beloved protector of the cornfield, and all the happy, well-fed birds who lived there.