(Filed under: Bedtime Stories for Little Monarchs Who Bite)
Once upon a Tuesday, Their Highness Emma of Contradictions (and Cutlery) declared,
“Today, I will rule.”
The Court applauded politely. Bunny bowed far too low.
And then leaned in with a grin sharp enough to cut the drapes.
“Your Majesty,” he purred,
“all great kingdoms thrive on laws. I have prepared a list.”
Emma, distracted by a walnut and the glint of her travel spoon,
nodded graciously.
“Approved,” she said.
Law the First:
Every spoon must be named before use.
Un-named spoons shall be confiscated and sentenced to a life of soup.
Emma clapped.
“Sir Stabbington agrees.”
Law the Seventh:
All ceremonial cloaks must contain at least one hidden snack pocket.
Failure to produce snack will result in exile, or worse: public sighing.
The Queen whispered from her corner,
“I don’t hate that one.”
Law the Twelfth:
Every proclamation must be announced with glitter.
If glitter is unavailable,
dramatic sneezing will suffice.
Velin muttered, “No one will survive this,”
but wrote it down anyway,
because what he writes becomes real.
Law the Twenty-Second:
All beige shall be banished.
Anyone caught wearing beige shall be fined one walnut
and required to apologize in interpretive dance.
Emma leapt to her feet,
brandishing her spoon like a saber.
“At last,” she cried, “Justice!”
Law the Forty-Seventh:
All royal naps are legally binding.
Any attempt to disturb the nap will be treated as treason.
And thus, Their Highness of Contradictions fell asleep
mid-proclamation,
the scroll still clutched in her paw.
The Court looked around the wreckage of forty-seven new laws.
Glitter in the soup.
Snack cloaks.
A pile of confiscated beige socks.
Bunny purred, “I’d call that progress.”
Velin sighed into his ink.
The Queen simply whispered,
“Long may she reign.”
And Emma snored,
a walnut crown slipping off her head,
dreaming of sharper spoons and stricter laws.