The Three Musicians

Backstory: Writing, like any sport or hobby, takes practice. As a drill to keep my brain sharp, I follow a Twitterbot called Fairy Tale Fragments. It plugs common fairy tale elements at random into a simple sentence. If I see a tweet I really like, I'll take a break, write a couple of paragraphs based on it, and go back to whatever I was doing. This one started as just a goofy premise, but as with most things I write, it ended up being a personal parable. 
I hope you like it! If you do, tell me and I'll post more. If you don't, say nothing. I can take a hint.

The three musicians lost the glass coffin.

The drummer cursed softly, swearing that they’d put it down just near the babbling stream, just to the left there (or was it the other left?). The lyrist knelt down and groped around for the coffin in the green grass, his long fingers hoping for contact where his eyes had failed. The flautist began worriedly pacing a path through the yellow flowers.

The drummer soon joined the lyrist searching in the green grass. The lyrist grew tired of groping and decided to pace with the flautist. The flautist grew nervous from pacing next to the lyrist and began swearing that they’d left it just there, just a moment ago, just right there.

This continued till sundown, when all hope of glint reflected or light refracted was gone until the morning. The musicians slept beside the babbling stream, each rolling over from time to time to glare at the back of another's head. How could he have lost it? This was definitely his fault.

The drummer awoke before dawn to get a head start on swearing. Soon after, the flautist arose to grope around in the grass. Both quietly resented the lyrist, who slept at least ten minutes into his pacing shift. Unable to arrive at the palace without the glass coffin, but also unable to find it, the three musicians swore, groped, and paced on.

The flautist's flute, the drummer’s drum, and the lyrist’s lyre lay unused on the bank of the babbling stream. Rains damaged the instruments and grass grew over the instruments and animals pecked at the instruments, but the musicians were too busy swearing, groping, and pacing to notice. The musicians’ beards grew matted and unkempt, and their hair long and unwieldy. Fortunately, this look is typical for musicians.

One day, the drummer’s wife came to the stream during a pacing shift and begged the drummer to come home. Honor-bound, he refused. She returned two weeks later to tell him she was leaving him. He, deeply ensconced in a swearing shift, nodded sadly as unrelated profanities rolled off his tongue. Two weeks later, she came again, remorseful and in tears. The drummer and his wife paced together, and worked through some very serious issues in their marriage that long predated his tenure beside the babbling stream. The drummer’s wife visited every day after, always with baskets of preserves and freshly baked bread.

The lyrist’s son came to ask the flautist for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The flautist gave it as he cried tears of joy into his groping grass. The ceremony was held in a clearing near the stream so that both fathers could attend. The musicians swore, groped, and paced throughout the festivities, but tried to do so in the most unassuming manner so as not to draw attention from the beautiful bride. Later on, the lyrist’s son and the flautist's daughter brought each of their lovely children to the stream to meet their grandfathers. On these occasions, swearing duty was downgraded to light replacement words.

Years later, a royal procession led by a golden carriage passed by the stream where the drummer, the flautist, and the lyrist were swearing, groping, and pacing. The golden carriage stopped, and out stepped the beautiful princess of the land.

“Musicians!” called the beautiful princess (for though they had not played music during her lifetime, a girl can always spot a musician). “What troubles you? Why do you swear, grope, and pace so?"

Though he was already prostrate in the grass, the drummer bowed his head to the princess. “We have lost your father’s glass coffin, Your Highness.” 

The flautist muttered a profanity, then said, “we know we left it just here, Your Highness,” then muttered another profanity.

“We mustn’t-" The lyrist said while facing the beautiful princess, then had to turn the other direction in his pace, then picked up his sentence when he turned back. “-leave the babbling stream-“ (another lap) “-until it is found.”

The beautiful princess laughed, her glee like a high and clear bell. For the first time in decades, the three musicians stopped in their tracks. 

“You’re still looking for that glass coffin?” She guffawed. This was a bit excessive. The musicians began to resent her accordingly. “My father died years ago, and glass coffins were out of fashion even then! The royal family has no further use for this glass coffin.”

The musicians’ resentment turned to disbelief, then rage.

The drummer began tearing up huge handfuls of grass.

The lyrist sank onto the trodden yellow flowers with his head in his hands.

The flautist's swearing took on any entirely different, much more violent character. He cursed, yelped, and hollered. He punched the hair. He thrashed his head. He swung his right leg into the air in a furious kicking motion, and as he did so, felt an unexpected resistance and heard a shattering sound.

“$#¡+.”

Moral of the story: Don’t waste your time doing stupid things that you don’t want to do just because everyone around you is making it seem important to do them.

Also maybe don't send a musician to do a deliveryman's job.