I'm Only the Trombone Player

“I Swear It On Me Pot O’ Gold”!

Authors Note & Prompt ▼

"Invalid Item"  ~ Five Day Blog Challenge ~ April 5^th. ~ The Crooked Forest, Location: West Pomerania, Poland

“Are ye daft ya’ silly rabbit?”

Pub Bunny was shocked by the Grumpy Leprechaun’s attempt to trick him, “I’m a Bunny, not a rabbit!” His ears twitched in annoyance.

“Bunny — rabbit, what’s the hoppin’ difference?” Pointing at the twitching ears, “ye got long, floppy ears and big hoppy feet, don’t ya?”

“A Bunny is a hare of a different color!” The regular rolling of his eyes stopped as he focused on the Leprechaun, “and I’m serious! How did all those trees get all bendy and curvy in that forest in Pole-Land?”

“Pole-Land!?! What in the Land o’ Blarney are ye — Oh, you’re prattlin’ on about The Crooked Forest in West Pomerania, Poland aren’t ye now?”

“Sorry.” Looking quite sheepish for a Bunny. “I thought Andre said Pole-Land.”

“Aye!” Nodding in partial agreement. “Well, if Andre had been in his cups at the time, I ken understand a wee bit o’ befuddlement — or in your case Bunny, more befuddlement than usual!” Pub Bunny nodded in agreement before frowning a bit.

“Wood-Sprites,” exclaimed the Leprechaun loudly!

“Bless You!”

“No Ya floppy-eared idjit, ‘twas Wood-Sprites that bent the trees all askew —

“No, I’m asking you.” Cute Bunny eyes starting to roll in confusion again.

Grumpy took a pass at Pubbies easy straight line; the last thing he wanted to do was get into an Abbot and Costello routine. “It was a convention of the Grand Council of Wood-Sprites, back in the mid-1930s. They had selected Poland that year because humans were about to threaten the forests they protected.”

“A Convention!?! Is that like an invention?”

“Ehh what? No, blast ya fuzzy little ears, that’s a contraption, now stop inte’rup’tin’ me!”

Pubby touched his ears, and they were indeed fuzzy, so he let that slide.

“Now, where was I? Ah, yeah — The Grand Council of Wood-Sprite’s Convention of 1933! Well, it seemed like a well-planned event until all four hundred or so of the delegates showed up. ‘Twas then they discovered that not a soul had brought a chair, stool, or nary a bloomin’ bench!”

Looking excited, Pubby interjected, “they had no place to sit!”

“Aye”, patting Pubby on the head, “no place to park their — assets, so to speak.”

“So what did they do?”

“The Wood-Sprites did what Wood-Sprites do best; they used the trees of the forest to solve their dilemma. In a stand of newly planted pines, they created seating for four hundred —

Looking suspicious or at least as dubious as someone loopy on sasparilla can look. “Are you sure that’s what happened?”

Grumpy raised his left hand, — “I swear it on me Pot o’ Gold”!

Word Count ▼

440 Words

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...I'm only the trombone player!

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