(10 hours) #30 Frogtopia - Jason’s Bed Time Story Time (19th April 2024)

Hello and welcome to Jason's Bedtime Storytime. This is the 19th of April 2024. My name is Jason Newland and this is number 30.

It's the 30th story that I've done and this story is called Frogtopia. So please only listen when you can safely close your eyes. The main reason behind this podcast, the story, is just to bore you to sleep basically.

You can listen and just drift off to sleep if you choose. At the very least it should be helpful for you to feel more relaxed. So I have Vinny with me.

He's underneath the table leaning on my leg. So you might hear him in the background chewing on stuff. That's just what he does.

So it's fine. Just a few little noises here and there but other than that it's just me and you. The window is open so it's a little bit windy outside but that kind of fits in with the story because Frogtopia is a very windy place.

Okay so let's get started. So the beginning, this is the prologue, the legend of Frogtopia. In the beginning, before Frogtopia perched atop its towering tree, and long before the winds learned to sing their howling tunes, there was a vast serene pond surrounded by lush meadows and dense forests.

It was in this tranquil haven that the legend of Sir Crocolot, the founder of Frogtopia, began. Sir Crocolot was not an ordinary frog. He was born under a harvest moon, imbued with a curious blend of wisdom and levity.

As legend has it, the night of his birth, the pond shimmered unusually bright, kissed by moonbeams that seemed to whisper secrets of old. And from this croak, his first croak, it was clear he was destined for greatness. See, unlike humans, when we croak, that's kind of the end.

With frogs, it's the beginning. As he grew, Sir Crocolot became known not only for his sage advice, but also his boundless curiosity and pungent for problem solving. He would often be seen pondering the nipples of the pond, converting with dragonflies or organizing the pond creatures into orchestras that played melodies as crisp as the autumn air.

One fateful day, a tempest, unlike any other, swept through the valley. The pond threatened to overflow, and the meadows were at risk of flooding. It was Sir Crocolot who rallied the frogs, and with quick thinking and a few strategic croaks, he led the construction of bulwarks using lily pads and reeds, saving their deluge.

His heroism during the storm earned him the respect and admiration of all pond dwellers. However, Sir Crocolot's restless spirit yearned for more than just a tranquil life at the pond. He dreamed of a place where frogs could thrive, safe, and not just survive.

A place where creativity and whimsy were the norms rather than the expectations. And thus, with a heart full of dreams and a head full of ideas, Sir Crocolot set out on a quest. His travels took him through shadowy forests and over sunlit hills until he reached the great tree.

It was here, amid the branches of the colossal tree, that Sir Crocolot envisioned a new home. A village in the sky where every frog could view, have a view of the horizon and the safety of the lofty branches away from the and overflown ponds. With help from his woodland friends, the industrious beavers and the crafty squirrels, Sir Crocolot fashioned the first platforms from twigs and vines.

It was long before other adventurous frogs joined in, drawn by tales of a floating village and a life, tree and free from the usual toils and threats. On top of the vines and twigs, they all did lots of poos to turn it into almost like a pathway. Poo for frogs is like tarmac for humans.

Thus, Frogtopia was born, crafted from the dreams and poo of a visionary frog and built upon the foundation of community and creativity. Sir Crocolot decreed that all frogs in Frogtopia would be tethered only by their own choices and the winds, once a threat, become their friends and partners in the dance of life. So the weather wouldn't be an issue anymore, I think is what they're saying.

And as years turned into decades, the legend of Sir Crocolot and the founding of Frogtopia passed into the anals of folklore, told and retold by generations of frogs who continue to live out his legacy of wisdom, laughter and light-hearted defiance against the gravity of the worlds below. Now we come to Chapter 1. A Morning of Mirth As the sun peaked over the horizon, casting golden rays through the swaying branches of Frogtopia, the village square buzzed with the early morning energy of its uniquely buoyant inhabitants. Princess Frogget, with her routine swirl and enthusiastic shout of, CHOCOLATE WILLY! made her way towards the heart of the commotion.

Her spins scattered dewdrops with glitter around her, which in the minds of the villagers was a delightful way to start the day. CHOCOLATE WILLY! Now Prince Lyre, ever the centre of attention, had already gathered a small crowd around the old stump that served as the village's meeting spot. Today he was regaling them with his latest fantastic tales.

MY FRIENDS, Prince Lyre began with a dramatic sweep of his arms, almost losing his balance due to the gusting wind and falling to his death, but he held on with his tale. Just this morning I convinced the sun to rise an hour earlier. It was simply too dark, too late, don't you think? The frogs chuckled and rolled their eyes.

Sir Hoppington, always ready with a quip, hopped forward, adjusting his tiny glasses, perched comically on his snout. Indeed, and I suppose the moon clocked out early, thanks to your persuasive chat, eh? Is that what happened, Mr. Prince Lyre? Is that what happened? He said to the moon, you don't mind if it's going a bit early so the sun can come out a bit quicker? Is that all right? Is that what happened? Is it? Is it, heck?" Laughter filled the air, mixed with the rustling leaves, because it was windy all the time. The conversation soon turned to the upcoming great wind dance.

Miss Lily Leeper, the village's dance instructor, was particularly excited. I've choreographed a new dance inspired by the swirls of the weekend itself. It'll be like we're part of the breeze.

And Sir Hoppington, with his ready quip, always there, said, I do believe, because he had different voices at different times, didn't we move up to the top of the tree to avoid the wind? Isn't that why we came up here, because we used to get blown around everywhere? And now we're going to do a wind dance. Really? I thought we'd got over that. I thought we got through that.

I thought we'd moved on. Anyway, yeah, no one really, I don't know, he might have said it internally, but no one heard him because it was so windy, I guess. Froget, dizzy from yet another spin, chimed in, Oh, splendid.

And every time I spin around and shout out, Chocolate Willie! I feel like I'm stirring up a little, a little storm of myself. Chocolate Willie! And Sir Hoppington said, Are you sure it's not just gas, love? So she demonstrated once more, causing a few leaves to swirl around her as she twirled around. Chocolate Willie! And as the villagers discussed their preparations, the conversation inevitably drifted towards the more whimsical.

Do you ever wonder if clouds are just the sky's way of keeping secrets? Pondered Doc Croaker, the village thinker. Perhaps each cloud is a thought that the sky isn't ready to share. Well, that's a deep thought, Doc, remarked Lady Freda, who had just joined the group after ensuring everyone knew yet again they were certainly not Smurfs.

We're not Smurfs, just because we're blue doesn't mean we're Smurfs. Why's everyone think we're Smurfs? We're not Smurfs, we're frogs. OK, we're blue frogs, but we're not Smurfs.

Anyway, maybe that's why the wind is always howling, it's trying to whisper the sky's secrets to us. The group contemplated this notion, their minds wandering to the fantastical. Young Jumper, a spirited little frog with imagination larger than a tree itself, hopped excitingly.

Maybe we can collect the secrets tonight at the dance and I'll bring my secret net. It's invisible, but it works. Amidst the laughter and the light-hearted banter, the frogs of Frogtopia embraced the absurdity of their musings.

The morning was filled with a comfortable camaraderie, and each frog playing their part in weaving the rich tapestry of village life, where every conversation was a blend of joy and a pinch of daydream. And as they dispersed to continue their preparations, the echoes of their laughter mingled with the whistling wind, painting the morning with strokes of mirth and madness, perfectly setting the stage for the day's whimsical festivities. So, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the leaves of the great tree illuminating the vibrant, bustling village square of Frogtopia, a group of its most whimsical inhabitants decided to gather again round another old stump.

They called it the Other Old Stump. It was like a natural amphitheatre for the morning's musings. You know, they'd have lots of different gatherings, and this was just another one.

Not always the same frogs would be there, and the lizard smurfs by the den in case they get in trouble. And this particular conversation was sparked yet again by Prince Lyre, who said that he'd woken with the sunrise, or so he claimed, and he noticed that the birds with the songs seemed a little bit out of key. Imagine if we could teach the birds to sing backwards, he mused loudly, trying to catch the attention of anyone who would listen.

The dawn chorus would sound like a symphony played in reverse. How extraordinarily absurd would that be? That was kind of a question and a statement at the same time. Now, this caught the ears of Princess Froggit, who came twirling into the conversation again.

Adding her thoughts with her unusual or usual flair. Wouldn't that turn their choop-choop into piz-pee? It's like they're gossiping about the morning instead of announcing it. So she finished her statement with a dizzying spin and the obligatory shout of, CHOCOLATE WILLY! Causing a few nearby people getting covered in leaves.

And the discussion then drifted, as it often did in Frogtopia, towards even loftier topics. Now, Dogcroaker was definitely the philosopher. And because he'd already been talking about clouds and stuff like that, he brought up the recent peculiar flavours of the clouds.

Uh, you know, just last evening, I tasted a cloud that had hints of marshmallow, with a subtle undertone of lost socks. It makes one wonder, what exactly is the texture of cloud flavours? And they more, are they rather, are they more like cotton candy, or like the froth of cappuccino? And they smell more like socks. Lost socks.

Because lost socks smell worse. They smell different. Not like your average sock.

Because they're lost. Then he stopped talking, looking around, wondering if anyone was listening. Lady Frida, always keen to keep the conversation grounded in some semblance of reality, chuckled.

I think they're like the film that dreams are made of. Fluffy and substantial, yet somehow, fill the sky with a taste of wonder. Everyone looked at her like, what the, what, what are you talking about? You're supposed to be the one that's keeping us grounded, and you're sounding even nuttier than the rest of us.

And as the frogs debated, not the smurfs, the frogs, even though they were blue, they weren't smurfs, they debated the notion that perhaps the sun itself was feeling a bit drab. And they thought about that. Maybe the sun was feeling a bit drab.

Unless this was floated by none other than Sir Hoppington, who observed. You know, the sun has been looking a tad dim these past few days. Maybe it's time we gave it a new coat of paint.

Something vibrant, like a splash of lemon-yellow or fiery-orange to brighten our day. Well, that's a splendid idea, said Jumper, the young frog with an artist's soul and a sexy voice. Imagine a sunrise in shades of turquoise and lavender.

It would be like waking up in a painting every morning. The conversation was rich with creativity and humour, painting mental images as vivid and vibrant as the world around them. And the frogs of Frogtopia thrived on such dialogue, each absurd idea a thread in the fabric of their community, woven together with laughter and shared appreciation for the delightful quirks of their whimsical existence.

And as they dispersed to their various tasks, their laughter lingered in the air, mingling with the fresh morning breeze and the backward songs of the birds, creating a symphony of joy and jest that set the tone for the rest of the day in Frogtopia. Not Smurftopia. Frogtopia.

Just because they're blue doesn't mean that they're Smurfs. Just remember that. Chapter 2. Preparations for the Great Wind Dance As the day of the Great Wind Dance drew closer, the village of Frogtopia transformed into a whirlwind of activity.

Each frog decked out in their most colourful attire, shades of blue so vivid they could make a Smurf envious. But they weren't Smurfs, they were frogs. And some may say, well, if you're already blue, why are you wearing clothes of blue? Well, stop being so racist, OK? You leave your bigotry ideas alone.

Leave them somewhere else. This is a nice, friendly fairy tale story. If a blue frog wants to wear blue clothes, they're allowed to.

Who are you to tell a frog what to wear? So let's just move on. Let's forget it ever happened, eh? Yeah. Right.

Prince Lyre, appointed as the overseer of decorations, was in his element. He stood atop a small mound, directing his fellow frogs with grandiose flair. Now remember, there are not just any decorations, these aren't.

These aren't just any decorations. They are crafted from the whispers of the shyest clouds. Those clouds that hide, they hide but refine them, because they're so shy.

And only those with the most refined senses can see them. Someone such as me. He proclaimed, waving a delicate vine as though conducting an orchestra.

Unfortunately, Paul McCartney wasn't around to help to produce a song. But they waited, but he never seemed to turn up. I guess he was busy.

Now Frogette, twirling near him, was a blur of motion. With each spin, she leapt into the air, trying to snatch the elusive whispers from the breeze. I caught one.

It told me a secret, she cried out, spinning and shouting. Chocolate Willie! Each shout seemed to weave the whispers into more tangible forms, her dance threading through the air like ribbons of light. Let's tie them here and there, Prince Lyre suggested, pointing randomly into the space around him.

Yes, just there. Can you not see? Right between the sunshine and the shadow. I said the shadow.

Jumper, a young and imaginative frog, squinted, pretending to catch sight of the decorations. Oh, a masterpiece of invisibility. It's like painting with wind on a canvas of air.

He was very conceited. He really was a knob. Anyway, so meanwhile, in the village centre, Gormand Ribbiter, the renowned chef of Frogtopia, very important position because we all like to eat, don't we? We all need to eat, was orchestrating a culinary spectacle with a large leaf as his palette and an assortment of petals and dewdrops as his ingredients.

He invited the villagers to taste his latest creations. Today we dine on the spectrum. We're going to dine on the spectrum, Gormand announced.

Here, try this. It's a dish that tastes like the colour blue, sad and deep, yet refreshing as the sky after rain. After rain, a young frog, wide-eyed and curious, took a tentative lick.

Oh, it sings. The flavour is like a melody, a blue tune played on a water droplet. And this, Gormand continued, gesturing to a bright concoction simmering with a fiery hue, this one tastes of red.

It's a symphony of sunset and passion, a culinary conflation or congregation or some other word that I don't understand, but I'm going to use to make my sound, my show sound more intelligent. So as the frogs gathered, tasting colours and listening to flavours, the air filled with sounds and hues that danced like notes on a scale. Oh, how poetic! They guessed and marvelled at each dish, laughter blending with the mock serious critiques of the culinary artistry.

Lady Frieda, taking a break from her frequent reminders about their non-smurf status, sampled a green morsel. Oh, this one's like a lullaby of leaves. It rustles with the calm of a forest whisper.

And we're not smurfs. The preparation of the Great Wind Dance were not just tasks, but performances, a communal art project where each contribution added layers to the tapestry of their festival. The frogs revealed, revelled, revealed and revelled in the absurdity of their imaginations, turning the mundane into magical, weaving reality with fantasy and the cheerful cacophony of their preparations.

And as the sun began to set, casting long shadows and painting the village golden hues, the decorations, invisible to the eye but vivid in the imagination, fluttered in the gentle evening breeze. The feast, the buffet of imagined delights, promised a night of revelry and joy. Soon the dance, Sir Hobbington mused, looking around at the bustling scene to see if anyone was listening.

Soon the dance, a night where we are anchored by vines but freed by dreams. It will begin, and may the winds be ever in our favour. Indeed, as Frogtopia geared up, for the night's festivals, the air was alive with more than just the wind.

It pulsed with the heartbeats of community, united in their delight of the whimsical surreal. And a weird whiff of, well, someone farted, no one knew who it was, but there was definitely a whiff of that in the air, but it wasn't mentioned by anybody, because it didn't matter, because sometimes in life you accept the odd fart, the odd pong, it's okay, you know. Now we come to chapter three, afternoon antics.

As the sun climbed its afternoon arc, casting dappled shadows through the branches of Frogtopia, the village square became the stage for a very peculiar event. The frogs adorned in their festive best gathered eagerly for a display of deceit, and a symphony of whispers that would have baffled any outsider, the lying contest. Prince Lyre stood on a makeshift podium, made from an overturned bucket decorated with vines and flowers, and a little bit of poo just to keep it sturdy.

He cleared his throat dramatically, and announced, Welcome, one and all, to the grand festival of fabrications. Here we celebrate the art of the tall tale, the whopper, the fib, and one by one the frogs hopped up onto the podium, each ready to spin a yarn, more ludicrous than the last. So Sir Hoppington was first, adjusting his spectacles with a flourish, I once convinced the moon to swap places with the sun, and the sun got jealous, it refused to rise, until it got a better contract, including more shifts off.

The crowd erupted in laughter and applause as Princess Froggit took her turn, spinning rapidly before delivering her falsehood. Oh, I totally, I taught a cloud to dance ballet, it was so light on its midst, it floated away to start a career in the Sky Ballet Company. Oh, chocolate willy! Next was Jumper, the young imaginative frog who jumped excitedly.

More tale is that the mountains around us are quite the voyeurs. They shuffle around at night, you see, each vying for a better view of the stars. Why, just last night I saw one peak peaking at another one.

Lady Frida, not to be outdone, added, And those stars, they are notorious thieves. Last night, or was it last week, sometime, they snuck down and stole my recipe for the starlight stew. Now every evening they twinkled just to taunt me with their theft, and they ate the stew in front of me.

I was so angry, I've never been so angry before. The crowd cheered wildly, each participant outdoing the last, weaving a tapestry of tales so wild and wondrous that even the trees seemed to shake with mirth. After the exhilarating lies had settled, the festival moon shifted to a gentler pace.

The frogs gathered in a circle, each taking a deep breath as they prepared to engage in the art of wind-whispering. Dear Wind, began Doc Crocker in a soothing voice, You who cares caress the leaves and tease the strings, Would you perhaps enjoy a trill from our bug-egg-orchestra this evening? Froggit, always ready to add flair, said, What are you talking about? I didn't understand a word of that. It didn't make sense.

He spun around and said, Chocolate Willie! And then ran off. The winds, ever playful, responded with a series of gentle gusts, rustling the leaves in soft laughter, and encouraged the frogs continued, offering compliments and quirky treats. Lady Freda says, I'll knit you a scarf from the finest spider silk.

Dear Wind, promised Lady Freda, sounding a little bit sarcastic, For even a breeze might catch a chill. And I, declared Prince Lyre, with a mischievous glint in his eye, I will offer you a map to the places where the sun sleeps. Perhaps you can tickle it awake with your gentle breath.

And as the frogs spoke, the winds seemed to dance around them, a soft whispering participant in their festival, embracing each other with a swirl of leaves and a flutter of petals. And as the afternoon waned into evening, the frogs of Frogtopia felt a delightful connection to their whimsical world. The festival air was thick with laughter and light breezes, a perfect prelude to the night's upcoming dances.

With hearts light and spirits high, they moved towards the dance floor, ready to celebrate the wind, the whimsy, and the wonderful absurdities of their unique existence.