Penny and the Planet of Polite Dragons
- LettersLetter
- Jan 29
- 4 min read
Updated: Feb 27
Penny Griggs was wonderful at spotting cookies, inventing sock songs, and forgetting to say please.
She didn’t mean to. Her words just sprinted ahead of her, like puppies escaping a gate.
“Penny, shoes,” Mom called.
Penny wrestled a sneaker. “My laces are being rude!”
Dad set toast on the table. “Ask the toast nicely to wait. It’s very patient.”
Penny grabbed it. “Thanks.”
Mom’s eyebrows did the small up-up that meant, You know the extra word.
Penny groaned. “I know. I just… forget.”
That night, she found a note under her pillow, cinnamon-sweet and warm.
Dear Penny Griggs,
Emergency of Politeness. Bring one brave heart and one ordinary spoon.
—The Planet of Polite Dragons
“A spoon?” Penny whispered. “That’s the weirdest invitation I’ve ever gotten.”
Curiosity won. She grabbed her cereal spoon, climbed back into bed, and said, “Okay. I’m ready.”
The lamp flickered. The air folded. Her pillow puffed into a cloud and gave a polite whoomph before lifting her, like it asked permission first.
Penny yelped—and then she landed on feather-soft ground.
A lavender sky hung above her, dotted with floating lanterns shaped like commas. They drifted slowly, as if they didn’t want to bump anyone.
A dragon stood in front of her.
It was mint-green, round, shiny, and wearing a bow tie.
The dragon bowed so deeply its tail curled like a question mark. “Greetings. I am Sir Basil Wimplethorn the Third. Thank you for coming.”
Penny’s questions piled up in her mouth, but Sir Basil lifted one gentle claw.
“May I ask a small favor?” he said.
Penny remembered the missing word and blurted, “Please?”
Sir Basil’s eyes softened. “Splendid. Please speak at a pace your thoughts can keep up with. It is safer here.”
He guided her past little houses shaped like teacups. Dragons walked carefully, holding doors, waiting turns. A tiny dragon huffed at a wheelbarrow.
“Excuse me,” it puffed, “could you please stop squeaking?”
The squeak quieted, almost shy.
Penny stared. “Your stuff listens.”
Sir Basil nodded. “Our planet runs on courtesy. Politeness isn’t just nice—it’s how things work.”
They reached a towering arch of silverwood: the Great Door of Welcome. It was carved with vines of words—please, thank you, excuse me, and sorry.
But the door was stuck halfway open, groaning like it had swallowed a sofa.
Dragons bowed and begged.
“Would you consider opening, if you feel up to it?” one asked.
Nothing.
Sir Basil’s bow tie drooped. “If the Door stays stuck until midnight, our comma-lanterns will freeze into full stops. Visitors won’t arrive. Worse—our dragons will start forgetting kindness.”
The lanterns above slowed, as if listening.
Penny’s stomach tightened. Forgetting kindness sounded like forgetting how to laugh.
“Why me?” she asked.
Sir Basil tapped her spoon. Ding. “This is the Spoon of Ordinary Truth. It shows what’s really stuck.”
A small dragon with a scarf tugged Penny’s sleeve. “I’m Piff,” it whispered. “Door Sweeper. Hurt words won’t work.”
Piff pointed low on the door. “One word’s been scratched raw.”
Penny crouched and tilted her spoon like a mirror. In its curve she saw a dark scrape in the carvings.
The word was sorry—crossed through like someone tried to erase it.
Penny’s throat pinched. She knew that feeling: when you mess up and wish you could vanish.
She pressed a finger to the scratched letters. Cold. Stubborn.
Her words tried to sprint—fast apologies, tangled and noisy. But she remembered Sir Basil’s favor. Slow. Safe.
Penny breathed in cinnamon air.
“I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry you got hurt. I notice you.”
The door went still, like it leaned closer.
Penny swallowed. “And… thank you. Thank you for helping people fix things.”
Warmth spread under her fingertip. The scratched sorry softened, as if it had been holding its breath.
Piff sniffed. “It’s listening.”
Penny lifted her spoon. “Please,” she whispered, “will you help us open?”
The Great Door sighed—long and relieved.
Then it swung open, smoothly, gently, like it had been waiting for permission to stop hurting.
All the dragons bowed at once, like a field of teapots tipping.
Sir Basil beamed. “Marvelous!”
Penny blinked. “I didn’t push it.”
Piff grinned. “You didn’t force it. You mended it.”
The comma lanterns drifted again, airy and alive.
Sir Basil bowed. “Penny Griggs, thank you. Our welcome remains warm.”
Warmness settled in Penny’s chest—not perfect, not shiny. More like a small ember that said, Try again.
“Can I go home?” she asked, suddenly missing her bed and Mom’s eyebrow signals.
“Of course,” Sir Basil said. “And thank you for practicing.”
Penny nodded. “Thank you,” she said. Then, after a beat, “please.”
The air folded. The pillow-cloud gave another polite whoomph. Penny landed back on her carpet, spoon in hand.
Downstairs, Dad called, “Penny, can you bring your plate?”
Penny looked at the plain doorway. No carved words. No vines.
Still, she felt that warmed-up sorry like courage.
“Yes,” she called, carrying her plate carefully.
She paused—just long enough for her thoughts to catch up.
“Please.”
Mom’s eyebrows did a surprised up-up. Dad grinned like toast had told him a joke.
Penny smiled too.
Not because she was suddenly perfect.
Because somewhere under a lavender sky full of drifting commas, a door was still open—and she knew exactly which word could unstick a stuck heart.
The LettersLetter "Free Bedtime Stories Club" Team
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