A Centuries Old Vanity

The prince stared at the parchment, as his ministers watched impatiently.

“This treaty will mean peace with the Empire and ensure that our kingdom remains independent.”

The prince hesitated as he dipped his pen in ink. He understood the ramifications. He knew that to continue fighting against the Holy Roman Empire would eventually lead to his destruction. The church could not tolerate anything they saw as a perversion.

But then he looked at the names at the bottom. King Ferdinand II and Prince Gabriel Bethlen.

He threw his pen aside. Vlad Dracula would never lie about his name. Not ever.

Getting excited about our historical fiction contest, and so I wrote this little piece, from 1620.

Regrets

I write my own praises, dictating stories to muckrakers. Advisors insist on it.

I ran for office to serve. Tragedy. Much is given, much is expected.

I spout platitudes with such grace, it scares me.

Advisors expect me to conduct myself with grace. Don’t show feelings.

Constituents expect a shining prince, savior of liberalism.

I drink copiously, the moon as my witness. I can’t contain the weight of demands, desires.

I wake up on stairwells and in closets, hangovers uniquely my own machination.

I feel failure pirouetting, a taunting ballerina. She’s right to taunt.

But I’m not allowed to regret.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri.

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. He is the recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train. His story, "Strangers," was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as (mac)ro (mic), Runcible Spoon, JAB Fiction and Poetry, Unstamatic, and Ariel Chart.

Old Flame At A Party

“Long time no see,” she says tipsily, introducing me to a ‘Rick.’ There’s tension between them, something’s not quite right.

Though remaining a looker, she doesn’t turn heads anymore.

I was too dull for her then, with my monogamy, my love of poetry. Chatting, I mention I still like T.S. Eliot, and have a family.

“Oh, settled down, have we?” she says, her tongue as sharp as ever, yet I sense an envy beneath the sarcasm.

“Well, I’m not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be,” I quote, a certain satisfaction in my self-deprecation, when bidding these lost souls goodnight.From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

Ian studied English Literature at Oxford University many years ago. He has had short stories published in various genres in Schlock! Webzine, Schlock! Bi-Monthly, Short-story.me, Anotherealm, Under the Bed, A Story In 100 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, and in anthologies by Horrified Press and Rogue Planet Press. He is an Affiliate Member of the Horror Writers Association.

A Saccharine Fairy Tale

Once upon a time, Prince Candy met Princess Cotton at tea in the zoo. During a lovely flirtation, luscious Prince Candy realized dusk about to fall and quickly strutted away. Now, wise Princess Cotton had secretly tied twine around Prince Candy’s ankle. Following the twine through the zoo, she found it now tied to a peacock’s leg. Though the peacock screeched and pecked, she knew it was her beloved bonbon. As the sun rose, she kissed his beak changing him back into her sweet beau. Vowing unending love, they lived happily ever after, producing bundles of brightly colored cotton candy.

From Guest Contributor D. K. White-Atkinson

Night

Floodlights dancing over the facade of D.C.'s skyline, lurid swirls of white illuminating lifeless constructs. Helicopters flitting, sound of thwift-thwift, fiery arcs followed by rifle's boom. Jamie clasped his fingers between chain link and watched. Behind him, scattered over a lightless tract of dirt, the naked dying, bleeding from eyes, cries of pain a muted keening of metal. Above: C.D.C. in masks and Hazmat suits, brandishing assault weapons. Washington was long dark—indeed, the entire country. Jamie gazed upwards. The milky way had manifested like fever dream, ephemeral and monolithic, a terrible Prince awaiting its prize's return to benign jungle.

From Guest Contributor John Webb

This is a repost of a story from 2014 that accidentally got deleted.

The Prince Of America

The prince lives in a gated estate deep in the Hollywood Hills. The paparazzi shadow him everywhere, heralding his arrivals and departures. His office, now purely ceremonial, still holds the attention of the populace, many of whom harbor secret hope his family will one day be restored.

The prince, despite being quite eligible, has not settled on a bride. His handlers have broached the topic of a reality TV show, a graceless suggestion that has not sat well. Discretion has always been important to the prince.

Also, he likes to sleep around. The prince is a slut. A discrete slut.