At an ivory-encrusted table, a delinquent princess sat. She had a sullen look on her pretty face, which actually served to highlight her exquisite brows (natural) and her red red pout (very pouty). We’d admit, actually, that this surliness detracted from her charm if it weren’t for the fact that we, the narrators, are very much in love with her. Her name was Emmaly.
Emmaly was the favorite. Of the kingdom, of her father, of the gods. She was graced with everything she ever wanted. Intellect. Leather jackets. Calligraphy pens. Snow leopards dyed neon colors. Cornbread made entirely of crust. First kisses. Gum. Even a new name.
For her half birthday between fifteen and sixteen, she decreed that everyone call her Princess Boom-bada-boom. Her favorite knights could call her Booms. But only before, while and after kissing her.
The Princess Emmaly Boom-bada-boom, sometimes (often) known as Booms, was outwardly petulant. This was a cover. She was, in fact, quite collected and used this surly cover to throw off any suspicion as to what made her wildly happy: sneaking out on her 1959 Harley, painted as black as the heart of a shark, and rousing up good times. She would dance her little legs off and come roaring home, racing the sun north.
Our princepesa would knock over gambling tables when she lost and curse robustly when she won. Booms would walk down back alleys, singing Bruce Springsteen. Booms played with bone dice, broke kneecaps and shattered diamonds. She had Beaujolais on her black taffeta dress. Our girl had magic in her.
Now there were several inconsequential princes in her past, and one consequential. He broke her ruby heart, that good-looking wolf. He told her he loved her but he had a kingdom to run and could not afford to waste the nights and laze the mornings away. He left on a horse as stuck-up as him.
After soaking in a gilded bathtub for three days, Booms made her first step towards recovery. She put on a robe and moved to the balcony. There, she slept and sunned and cried on a bed her servants moved from the summer cottage. Her tears streaked down her cheeks and she sang every Prince song she knew.
Her allure was such that every night she was out there, the moon would sink a little heavier towards the ground. Until, one night, the moon was hovering directly over Booms, peering directly into her eyes. The moon, a handsome-looking gentleman with a pocket-watch and a smoking addiction, sank a little heavier as he decided to love her the most. He reached down and pulled Booms up into an embrace. Booms appreciated the gesture, but all of a sudden, all she wanted to do was dance.
She lept out of his arms, bounded off the bed and shimmied down the balcony wall, passing good ol’ Romeo on his way to say hello. She didn’t even stop to exchange pleasantries. Vrroom, the Harley was fired up and off she blew in only her nightgown. Booms rode and rode until she found herself in an entirely new country where the entire nation danced for a living. There, she met Ryan Adams who wrote her dozens and dozens of songs. Even though she never loved quite the same again, she was happy. Light and happy.
Emmaly was the favorite. Of the kingdom, of her father, of the gods. She was graced with everything she ever wanted. Intellect. Leather jackets. Calligraphy pens. Snow leopards dyed neon colors. Cornbread made entirely of crust. First kisses. Gum. Even a new name.
For her half birthday between fifteen and sixteen, she decreed that everyone call her Princess Boom-bada-boom. Her favorite knights could call her Booms. But only before, while and after kissing her.
The Princess Emmaly Boom-bada-boom, sometimes (often) known as Booms, was outwardly petulant. This was a cover. She was, in fact, quite collected and used this surly cover to throw off any suspicion as to what made her wildly happy: sneaking out on her 1959 Harley, painted as black as the heart of a shark, and rousing up good times. She would dance her little legs off and come roaring home, racing the sun north.
Our princepesa would knock over gambling tables when she lost and curse robustly when she won. Booms would walk down back alleys, singing Bruce Springsteen. Booms played with bone dice, broke kneecaps and shattered diamonds. She had Beaujolais on her black taffeta dress. Our girl had magic in her.
Now there were several inconsequential princes in her past, and one consequential. He broke her ruby heart, that good-looking wolf. He told her he loved her but he had a kingdom to run and could not afford to waste the nights and laze the mornings away. He left on a horse as stuck-up as him.
After soaking in a gilded bathtub for three days, Booms made her first step towards recovery. She put on a robe and moved to the balcony. There, she slept and sunned and cried on a bed her servants moved from the summer cottage. Her tears streaked down her cheeks and she sang every Prince song she knew.
Her allure was such that every night she was out there, the moon would sink a little heavier towards the ground. Until, one night, the moon was hovering directly over Booms, peering directly into her eyes. The moon, a handsome-looking gentleman with a pocket-watch and a smoking addiction, sank a little heavier as he decided to love her the most. He reached down and pulled Booms up into an embrace. Booms appreciated the gesture, but all of a sudden, all she wanted to do was dance.
She lept out of his arms, bounded off the bed and shimmied down the balcony wall, passing good ol’ Romeo on his way to say hello. She didn’t even stop to exchange pleasantries. Vrroom, the Harley was fired up and off she blew in only her nightgown. Booms rode and rode until she found herself in an entirely new country where the entire nation danced for a living. There, she met Ryan Adams who wrote her dozens and dozens of songs. Even though she never loved quite the same again, she was happy. Light and happy.
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