Easter special with a short story An Egg for All Sorts

More about Easter special with a short story An Egg for All Sorts

In the gloomy twilight forest, where even the mushrooms squint and the trees secretly converse with each other, something... gristly happened one evening. Between gnarled roots, in the middle of a nest of thorns, mushroom fibers, and forgotten buttons, lay an egg. But not just any egg. It was black as ink, covered in spines, and it knocked—not rhythmically, but outrageously irregularly. As if someone inside had no patience. Or manners. The glowing plants all around flickered nervously. A twig bent curiously closer—and immediately recoiled as a sudden crack ripped through the egg. A twitch. A wobble. Then CRACK! With a cheerful, cheeky FLAP! the egg popped open, and out rolled... something. A small creature, barely larger than a baby badger, with scaly shoulders, wispy hair, oversized bat ears, and bright yellow eyes that immediately began to flash. His grin: sharp, cheeky, and definitely not trustworthy. "Finally!" it squeaked, as if it had decided the hatching time itself. It stretched its thin arms, twitched its wobbly tail, and shook itself like a wet paintbrush. A small mushroom next to it exploded in shock. The goblin laughed. "This is going to be fun!" it announced, even though no one had asked. It crawled out of the thorn nest, stepped into a glowing pool, immediately made bubbles with its feet, and christened itself: "I am Mumpel! Mumpel the First, King of the Wobbly Kingdom!" The trees looked at each other embarrassed. The fog crept cautiously away. And Mumpel? He rolled a piece of bark into a trumpet, blew strange notes into the night, and began drumming on stones with a stick. As if they were his subjects. He stole the shine from a snail's house, painted a beetle with mud, and stuck two glowing berries on his forehead like horns. And yet, somewhere beneath the noise, the giggling, and the chaos, there lay something tender: a small heart that, after a long darkness, now knew it was there. And the world? It would just have to get used to it from now on. Because wherever Mumpel crawled, there crept the possibility of nonsense, wonder, and a touch of magic. And so he disappeared—wobbling, whistling, behind a creaking fern—calling, "I'll come back when I'm bored! Or when someone loses their socks!" Which is almost the same thing in the Twilight Wood.