← Sleep Tight Stories - Bedtime Stories for Kids
Sleep Tight Stories - Bedtime Stories for Kids
Margherita Models For Libby 🍕(2nd slice of pizza)
00:25:23
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- [00:09]
A
Hello friends and welcome to Sleept Stories. Libby stayed up late reading and is not feeling very awake when her alarm goes off again. But she is looking forward to the day because it is Saturday and Libby has plans to paint Margarita models for Libby. Libby groaned, reaching for her alarm for what must have been the seventh time. I knew I shouldn't have kept reading last night, she mumbled when I but it was so good. Ugh. I guess there's no point snoozing the alarm again. She rolled over just as Margarita hopped up onto her bed. Good morning, Margarita, libby mumbled. It's too early for headbutts and those only happen after a good night's sleep. Margarita ignored her and gave her a headbutt anyway, then promptly flopped down right in front of Libby's face, her fur tickling Libby's nose. Hey, silly cat. Libby laughed, puffing out air. I don't need to eat fur for breakfast. She scooted back a little and gave Margarita some gentle morning chin scratches. The book I was reading last night was so, so good. Even though mom reminded me like six times to go to sleep, I just couldn't put it down and now I'm kinda sleepy. Lucky for me, it's Saturday and even mom sleeps in today, so I don't think she has been up long. Did you sleep well? Who am I kidding? You are a sleep machine. You always sleep well. Margarita purred softly in response. Eyes closed, completely at peace. She gave one last scratch behind the ears. Okay, that's all for now. I have to get dressed because today's the day. You remember, right? You agreed to model for me in your own fuzzy way. I'm painting your portrait. It's going to be so much fun. Just you, me, music, and painting. Cool, huh? Margarita stretched, hopped off the bed, and replied with a familiar non committal meh. Libby grinned. That's what I thought. Since today was a painting day. Libby pulled on her favorite painting outfit, dark green gym pants and an oversized black hoodie, both speckled with flecks of dried paint. She thought the spots made them look like wearable artwork. She also wore cozy mismatched wool socks. Spring might be here, but her toes were still freezing. She popped on her headphones and headed into the kitchen where her mom sat sipping coffee. Well, look who's awake, her mom said, smiling over her mug. I heard your alarm earlier and almost came in. But it's Saturday. Figured you might want to sleep in. Judging by those sleepy eyes though, I'd guess you didn't go to sleep when I suggested. Libby shuffled to the cupboard. Maybe. The book I was reading was really good. I couldn't stop. Her mom chuckled. Can't really get upset at you for reading too much. I stayed up late with my book, too. Luckily, we both have a free day. Got any plans? Today is Painting Day, libby said proudly. I'm painting Margarita's portrait and submitting it for our next art class exhibition. Her mom raised an eyebrow. That sounds like fun. But remember the last time she helped you with a painting? Libby groaned. I know, mom. But this time she agreed to be the model. So I'm sure nothing will happen, right? Libby's mom had a look that said, I'm not so sure. After a quick breakfast for Libby and a pizza snack for Margarita, Libby returned to her bedroom and cleared a space by the window where the morning light poured in just right. Soft and golden, perfect for painting. She set up her easel, carefully, angling it to catch the light, and arranged her favorite brushes in a neat little row beside her water cup, which still had a faint tint of blue from her last painting. On the floor, right where the sunlight shone, she laid out a cushion with a folded towel on top. Your throne awaits, Margarita, she said, smoothing it out one last time. Only the finest for my model. Libby stepped back and nodded. Everything was ready. This painting was going to be special. She could feel it. It's not just for class, she said aloud, even though no one else was there to hear. I might even frame it for the hallway or give it to mom. Or, you know, hang it in a museum if they ever need a whole section on iconic orange cats shaped like a loaf. Right on cue, Margarita wandered in with her usual, blinking slowly at the setup like it had appeared out of nowhere and might disappear just as suddenly. Libby knelt down and offered a few gentle head scratches. Come on. Your pillow's been fluffed, my dear muse. And I even brought in some extra pizza snacks. Margarita sniffed the cushion, circled twice, and finally settled herself, mostly because she'd spotted the pizza snack Libby had not so subtly placed nearby. Bribery works every time, libby whispered triumphantly. She took a breath and stood up, tall, paintbrush in hand, like a conductor before a grand symphony. Have I said thank you yet? Libby asked, pausing to glance at her cat. I mean, we haven't really started, but I do appreciate your help. You're my muse and all, even though I know you'd rather be sleeping on the couch or pretty much anywhere else. I mean, we're best friends, but you're not exactly known for volunteering. Margarita gave her a look Something between you're welcome and don't push it. Libby slipped on her headphones, turned on her music, and settled in to let her artist self take over. Okay, she announced in her slightly dramatic, performative artist voice. We're going for a seriously sophisticated feline, like a queen or a loaf of bread. Regal, either way. Or maybe, maybe a mysterious jazz cat from a jazz club in the 1950s. We'll see where the whiskers take us. Margarita blinked slowly. Not every artist has the same process, but for Libby, it always started the same way. Good music, soft light, her comfiest clothes, and a few sketches to set the mood and help define what she needed to paint. She grabbed her favorite pencil from one of the many cups scattered around her room and settled in, tongue poking out of the corner of her mouth in deep concentration. Let's capture that majestic whisker tilt and that glorious shoulder loaf, she murmured. Oh, yes. We've got volume. We've got posture. We've got. Margarita yawned. Attitude, libby said, grinning. It's a vibe. Once the sketch was finished, Libby took a deep breath and studied it closely. The lines would guide her next steps, just like real painters did. Now it was time to bring her model to life. Painting layer by careful layer, she reached for her palette, swirled her brush into the first shade of orange, and whispered, this is going to be super great. Brush in hand, Libby fell into her rhythm. Her music played loudly in her headphones. She'd been into jazz lately, which some of her friends thought was kind of weird, but that was okay. The paint glided over the canvas, guided by the sketch beneath as she layered warm oranges and soft shadows across Margarita's sleepy form. The orange cat hadn't moved in ages, curled up like an orange cinnamon bun in the sun. Libby smiled to herself. Honestly, you're the best model ever, she whispered. Okay, mostly because you're asleep. But still, an hour or maybe more slipped by without her noticing. Eventually, Libby leaned back to stretch her shoulders a little stiff. Her stomach gave a loud grumble. Who knew painting required snack breaks? She laughed to herself. She turned to look at Margarita, still snoozing in her little sunbeam like a furry cinnamon bun. Okay, libby whispered. I think I need to walk around a bit. Maybe get something to eat before I turn into a grumpy artist cliche. Is that okay with you, Madame Museum? Margarita didn't stir. Instead, she let out a soft sound, half snore, half meh. That made Libby giggle. I'll take that as permission. But let's be real. If you hear the fridge open. You're going to wake up and come trotting out like it's dinner time. She tiptoed around her supplies, careful not to knock over any jars or smudge the still drying background. You're doing a great job, by the way, she added. Easily the most cooperative model I've ever had. Which, okay, is a short list. But still. Libby padded into the kitchen in her mismatched socks and grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. She debated adding a cookie too, but decided to stay focused. Creative snacks only, she whispered to herself. With her apple in one hand and inspiration still humming in her chest, Libby padded back to her room. The light had shifted slightly, but Margarita was still nestled in her spot like a warm lump of contentment. The scene was perfect. Almost too perfect. Libby settled back into her chair with a quiet sigh, careful not to crunch her apple too loudly. She adjusted her headphones, dipped her brush into a fresh streak of warm orange, and got back to work. She was in the zone again, layering highlights along Margarita's back, softening the shadows under her chin and blending the tiniest streaks of sunlight glinting off one perfect curled paw. She had just finished adding a delicate sweep of orange to Margarita's ear when she heard a sound, low and sleepy, from beneath the easel. It was somewhere between a groan and a mwah. Oh no, Libby whispered. Not now. Down below, Margarita was beginning to stir. After, as if emerging from a century long slumber, the orange cat yawned so wide Libby could practically count her molars. Then she extended one paw in a slow, dramatic stretch. Her toes spread like tiny starfish. Careful, careful, Libby warned, watching from above. But Margarita wasn't done. The stretch continued. First the front legs, then the back, then a full body twist that ended with her back paws thumping into the easel's leg with a soft thud. Libby's brush froze mid air. The easel gave a small wobble. Margarita, blissfully unaware, flopped onto her side and promptly began licking her stomach. Okay, that's it. You are a menace, libby muttered, though she couldn't help smiling. Libby leaned forward slightly, steadying the easel with one hand. You can't just go stretching your majestic paws into my equipment, you know. Margarita responded with a non committal blink and a faint meh. Which Libby was pretty sure meant, it's your fault for putting the easel in my sunspot. She returned to the painting, trying to refocus, but the rhythm had shifted. The brush didn't glide quite the same. She was just about to touch up a highlight when Achoo the sneeze came out of nowhere. Margarita, having kicked up a bit of dust from under the bed, let out an explosive cat sneeze that echoed off the walls like a cannonball made of fur and pizza. The sudden noise jolted Libby. Her hand jumped. Her elbow knocked something, but she didn't yet know what, and the next second she heard a sickening clatter. She turned. Her palette had shifted. Her water jar wobbled. The easel gave another ominous creak. Oh, no. Oh no. Oh no. Libby said, lunging forward. But too late. Splosh. The water jar tipped and emptied itself across her desk like it had been waiting all day for its moment to shine. It flooded a notebook, soaked the corner of her sketch pad, and began a slow, unstoppable march toward her precious row of brushes. Libby gasped. No, no, no. Not the brushes. She reached for the cup, sent her apple skidding across the floor in the process, and in her scramble, elbowed the palette of paints with all the precision of a wrecking ball splat. A heroic arc of red and orange paint soared through the air like it was aiming for the moon before landing directly on the canvas with a wet smack. A brilliant, gooey streak now dribbled across Margarita's painted face like an angry spaghetti noodle. A second splatter landed near the bottom, right where Libby had been carefully working on the cuts. Curled paws. Libby just stared. No. No. This was going to be my best piece. My maybe museum piece. My Margarita masterpiece. As if on cue, the real Margarita decided this was the perfect time to leap onto the desk and investigate. Wait. No. But it was too late. One back paw landed squarely in the paint palette. The other swiped the edge of the paper Libby had used for testing colors, still soaked with leftover paint. Libby lunged, reaching with her cleanest hand. But Margarita, sensing chaos, launched into escape mode. She bolted across the room, then ricocheted off the easel itself, brushing her tail across the canvas in the process. A bold orange smudge now streaked across the background like a comet. Then down she went, across the floor, across Libby's sock, and right onto the hallway rug, leaving behind a trail of tiny paw prints like she was signing her own abstract masterpiece. Oh, come on. Libby wailed, holding up her foot like it had personally betrayed her. That was my good sock. Margarita skidded to a stop behind the reading chair, glanced back once, and then disappeared under Libby's bed like an artful fugitive. Libby collapsed onto the floor with a groan. Why can't anything I care about just go the way I planned? She stared at the canvas now looking like a portrait painted in the middle of a paint tornado and let out a long sigh. I should have just taken a photo. Libby sat in the middle of her room surrounded by chaos. There were paint splattered socks, a suspicious puddle under her chair, and the canvas, her special painting, was now a mess of smudges, streaks, and paw prints. Her brushes floated like little shipwrecks in the flooded brush cup. She flopped backward on the carpet with a groan loud enough to startle a dust bunny. I can't believe it. I worked so hard, I was so careful and now it's just a furry disaster. From under the bed, a tiny orange paw appeared, then another, and finally, with an exaggerated stretch, Margarita emerged like nothing had happened at all. She blinked at Libby, then strolled over, her tail held high as if she hadn't just committed a full on art crime. Oh, now you come out. Libby asked. Now that the damage is done and my sock is ruined and my masterpiece is marinated in spaghetti paint. Margarita meowed and plopped into Libby's lap, warm and purring and totally unapologetic. Libby sighed. She couldn't help it. Her fingers automatically found the familiar spot behind Margarita's ears. I mean, it was kind of funny, she admitted. You sneezed like a dragon. The paint flew like fireworks. And honestly, those paw prints, they're weirdly kind of great. She sat up slowly, Margarita settling across her legs like a sleepy scarf. Libby looked back at the canvas. The portrait was absolutely ruined, and also maybe not entirely ruined. There, amid the chaos, she could still see the parts that had worked the curl of Margarita's tail, the tilt of her ears, the brushstrokes that had once meant something and maybe still did. And all around them, little orange paw prints danced like confetti. Libby grinned. Maybe this isn't the painting I planned to make, but it's the one we made together. Margarita blinked slowly, approvingly. Libby stood up, carefully picking up the canvas and setting it on her easel again. You know what? I think I'm going to call this one Still Life with Disaster Cat. Or maybe Paws of Fury. She looked at her cat. What do you think? Margarita yawned and licked her paw, clearly fine with whatever. Libby grabbed a clean brush and with a little sigh, dipped it back into the paint. Let's fix what we can, she said, and keep what we can't. That's what makes it ours. And that is the end of our story. Good night. Sleep tight, Sa.