Story Examples
A taste of what lands in your inbox each night, told in a different voice every time.
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What Actually Lands in Your Inbox
Each night, you’ll get one short email with a button to read tonight’s story. Behind that single button is one story, gently reshaped into three versions, ages 2–4, 5–7, and 8–10, so no matter how old your child is, there’s always a version that’s just right for them.
A Different Storyteller, Every Night
Every story is narrated in one of several distinct voices. Tap a card to read a sample.
And more!
Some example moods:
Plots shift just as much: a small hero outwitting a big one, a bedtime mystery, a wild caper. Most nights the goal is just joy, but moral character building is always woven inside: bravery, kindness, courage, trying again and many more.
The Giggle Machine
Clementine and the Flumperdoodle Parade
Clementine the walrus decided, right in the middle of a Tuesday nap, that what her pond really needed was a kazoo. Not just any kazoo. The loudest, wobbliest, most spectacular kazoo the lily pads had ever heard. She practiced in the reeds. She practiced upside down. And then, for absolutely no reason at all, a parade of extremely confused ducks marched up and crowned her Grand Kazoo-tain of the Flumperdoodle Parade. Nobody knew what a Flumperdoodle was. Clementine certainly didn’t. She honked anyway.
The parade picked up steam fast. A toad named Reginald insisted on joining, on account of what he called his “excellent natural rhythm,” which turned out to mean hopping in the wrong direction at the wrong time, always, without fail. Three turtles joined next, purely for the snacks. By the time they rounded the big rock at the edge of the pond, the Flumperdoodle Parade was eleven animals strong, one kazoo loud, and getting louder by the minute.
That was when Clementine heard it. A sound coming from somewhere deep in the reeds, low and rumbly, keeping time with her kazoo almost like it was answering back. The whole parade stopped. Reginald stopped hopping, which had never happened before. Clementine lifted her kazoo, took the biggest breath a walrus has ever taken, and got ready to answer whatever it was.
The Sly One
Juniper and the Turnip Caper
Every grown-up in Wexford Hollow agreed that Mr. Pemberton’s prize turnips were not to be touched, sniffed, or even admired too closely. Which is exactly why a small, clever fox named Juniper decided they absolutely had to be touched, sniffed, and admired very closely indeed. She didn’t sneak in through the fence. She strolled in through the front gate, tipped her hat to Mr. Pemberton’s scarecrow, and had the whole patch of turnips loaded into her wagon before anyone noticed a thing.
Getting out again was trickier. Mr. Pemberton’s dog, a large and extremely serious bloodhound named Duke, lifted his head halfway across the yard and sniffed the air twice. Juniper didn’t run. Running was for foxes who hadn’t thought this through. Instead, she calmly rolled one single turnip toward the vegetable patch, and Duke, who took his job very seriously but not very cleverly, trotted off to investigate. By the time he came back, Juniper and her wagon were nothing but a small cloud of dust at the end of the lane.
That night, every child in Wexford Hollow had turnip stew for dinner, and not one of them asked where the turnips came from, because children rarely do. Juniper was halfway through congratulating herself, feet up by her own fire, when she heard it. A knock. Slow, deliberate, and coming from the front door of her den. She hadn’t told a single soul where she lived.
The Quiet Dreamer
The Moth Who Collected Moonlight
Down at the bottom of the garden, past the place where the grass grew taller than a watering can, there lived a moth who collected moonlight. Not sunlight, mind you. Only moonlight, gathered in little glass jars and lined up along a windowsill made of birch bark. Some nights she had only a thimbleful to show for her work. Other nights, when the moon hung low and full, she filled jar after jar until the whole hollow glowed soft and silver, like the inside of a seashell.
She never sold the moonlight, and she never used it either. She simply liked knowing it was there, waiting quietly, in case anyone ever needed a little extra light. And one night, someone did. A firefly landed on her windowsill, wings drooping, her own light gone dim and flickering. She didn’t say much, just looked at the moth with tired eyes. The moth didn’t ask questions. She simply opened her smallest jar, the one with the gentlest glow, and set it down beside her.
The firefly’s light steadied, slowly, like a candle catching. And that was when the moth noticed something she had never seen before, not in all her years of collecting. Far past the birch windowsill, past the tallest grass, a whole corner of the garden she’d never explored was glowing too, faint and silver, all on its own.
The Epic Quest
Captain Wren and the Hidden Cove
The map was drawn on the back of a fish scale, and it showed only one thing: an X, scratched deep into a cove no ship had ever dared to enter. Captain Wren didn’t hesitate. She rolled up her sleeves, tied back her hair, and told her crew of two loyal seahorses that they were setting sail before breakfast.
The sea did not make it easy. The tide fought them the whole first day, pushing the little ship backward for every stretch it gained forward. On the second day, the wind turned sharp and salty, snapping at the sails until Wren had to lash herself to the mast just to keep steering true. Her seahorses, Bell and Oar, never once suggested turning back, though Bell did mention, twice, that she would very much enjoy a snack the moment this was over.
By the third morning, the wind finally dropped, and a heavy fog rolled in around the ship, thick enough that Wren couldn’t see past her own bow. She slowed the ship to a crawl and leaned out over the rail, listening. Somewhere ahead, past the fog, she could hear splashing. Lots of it. Small splashes, dozens of them, getting closer. Wren gripped the rail, held up her lantern, and waited for the fog to clear.
