Jason And The Argonauts

Jason, hero of Thessaly, rightful heir to the throne of Iolcus, is a name synonymous with adventure. The quest for the golden fleece, brave Jason, standing tall at the stern of his ship, ready to do battle or challenge the gods if necessary.

Somehow, the most sensational part of Jason's story is the least remembered. Despite having wed Medea and fathering two boys, he courted the princess of Corinth as his bride. Understandably angered, Medea murdered the princess and her two sons. Jason was cursed for breaking his vows and died lonely and unhappy.

I'd say he got off easy.

His Majesty

The king sits on his throne with a large and excruciating chest wound. The room is filled with blood and lifeless bodies, his men.

The beautifully decorated hall is covered in blood and the delicately prepared meat and fruit sit untouched never to be eaten.

The king hasn’t much time. He can’t feel his legs and his body is cold. He reaches for his ring and struggles with his weak fingers to remove it. As he releases it, he slumps over and the ring drops to the ground, the noise echoing in the quiet.

His Majesty will soon be replaced.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Magnolia

Pink Patsy’s throne was her porch, where she roosted like a proud poodle through the better part of a century. She was all pretty pastry and puffball in oodles of swaddled satins and mega bijoux, with cloudward curls as epic as her jewels. Her communal vat of ice cubes and iced tea was legendary among heat-struck fieldhands and thirsty children alike: there was more gin than lemon or sugar, and we fished out ice with silver tongs that looked like chicken feet. They said she kept a tiny pearl pistol in her pom-pom mules, and she only used it once.From Guest Contributor Lorette C. Luzajic Lorette is a widely published writer of flash fiction and prose poetry, with recent appearances in Tiny Molecules, The Citron Review, Ghost Parachute, Dillydoun Review, and more. She is the founder and editor of The Ekphrastic Review, a journal of literature inspired by visual art.

Inspiration

Beads of sweat dripped down my face as I hurried into the door of the Royal Museum of Fine Arts. People gathered at one painting, “The Virgin and Child Surrounded by Angels,” by Jean Fouquet.

I pushed my way through the crowd until I reached the exquisite masterpiece. The Virgin’s voluptuous breast was exposed for her hungry child that sat naked on her lap, her hand gently around his waist. Dozens of angels surrounded them while her crown glowed, and she sat high in her throne.

I stood awestruck.

That was all the inspiration I needed to begin painting again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Scrabbling For Vanity

Most had outside toilets, located in narrow backyards just far enough away from kitchen doors for odours to dissipate.

Granddad’s was a stark brick shell with a plank-door, cord for inner handle, neatly torn newspaper for wiping, and Adamant throne a chasm to toddlers.

The landlord was actually well-to-do and had provided an Edwardian commode, but this was purely for night-time excursions by the ladies of the house.

The home of the paternal grandmother faced the cathedral; the toilet inside. She boasted poshness.

The facility was internal only because her house had no yard. She forever nagged about flushing properly.

From Guest Contributor Perry McDaid

Mall Christmas

Christmas shoppers crush the mall their noisy chatter drowning out tinny holiday music. Fairy lights glimmer from boughs bedecked with fusty smelling red bows. At the epicenter of the mayhem is Santa Claus, surrounded by dingy fluffy snow. Corralling people into a staggering line, the elves keep order as Santa's beard is yanked -- it's real! -- and wishes whispered in his ear. A ruffled and flustered child heads for the over-sized presents next to Santa's worn throne. Ripping shiny paper away, the child's eyes fill with tears -- it's empty! A quick-thinking elf offers a fat orange. Tears gone. Christmas is saved!

From Guest Contributor D. K. White-Atkinson

The Mad King

You timidly stepped inside the royal chambers, unnerved by the rumors of random beheadings and incoherent proclamations. Many people went for a sovereign audience and were never heard from again.

An old man sat the throne. He looked regal, not crazed, dressed in the golden robes and diamond crown of his august office. He stared sternly as, wobbling, you inched forward. In his lap sat a cat, which he stroked gently.

The man opened his mouth to speak and you dropped to one knee.

"The King has an announcement to make."

Everyone froze as the King opened its mouth.

"Meow."