I get that my dad has to do all these stupid ceremonies; he’s the king, la-di-da. But, does that really mean I have to go to the things too? It’s not my kingdom— would it still be a kingdom if I ruled it? A queendom? Anyway, I’m not the ruler; I shouldn’t have to go to this drawn-out, fuddy-duddy event to celebrate the bicentennial of some old tavern with good hash browns. ‘It’s a landmark, blah blah blah, good for the economy, blah blah blah, boosts the morale of the citizenry, blah blah. The optics, Aerith, the OPTICS.’ Can’t you go in my place? You look just like me. You just need to get up on the stage or whatever, give some speech, point at that old dwarven guy, then leave. Ten minutes, tops. Ugh. His council probably expects some gaudy centerpiece for their table to project how important they are. Forgot about that. You can probably find something cheap at the market if you hurry.
This poem is part of a collection called Shards of Kardpaz, which are texts I’ve written for the world of the Dungeons & Dragons campaigns I run with students at my school.
M. Espinosa 