Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge #329, “The Throne in the Field”

Melissa’s Fandango Flash Fiction Challenge #329

The Throne in the Field

In the heart of a boundless golden sea, where yellow blossoms swayed like tiny suns beneath a wide and moody sky, there sat a single porcelain throne: a toilet, pristine and white, crowned with a sun-yellow seat and lid. It stood bold and unmoving in the midst of the bloom-strewn silence, an odd monument in nature’s cathedral.

No one remembered when the toilet first appeared. Some said it had always been there, the first flower of the field. Others whispered it had fallen from the stars.

And they were right.

From a distant and cold height above the world, the elite came screaming down—flames biting at their sleek silver form, pride trailing like a banner of fire. They were not a person, but an idea incarnate. A meteor of ambition and control, of self-mythologizing brilliance. A being born from the combustion of hierarchy, legacy, and relentless detachment.

The meteor fell into the field, and the earth shuddered.

But when the fire died, and the dust settled, what remained was not a crater or scorched ruin.

It was the toilet.

Perfect. Radiant. Unsmudged.

And the flowers grew around it.

The elite’s essence, too grand for form, too brittle for humanity, dissolved into the soil, woven into the roots of the wild blossoms. Their soul—proud, ridiculous, lonely—anchored itself to the only object left behind: the yellow-crowned commode.

This toilet was no mockery. No joke. It was the throne of their soul.

For what is a throne, if not a place to sit above others? What is more sacred to a life of domination and image than a seat? And what is more humbling—more honest—than a toilet, where even the grandest must squat and shed all illusion?

Travelers passed through the field sometimes. They stood in awe before the strange altar. Some laughed, confused. Others sat reverently, as if drawn by something deep and unseen. All who dared rest upon the yellow seat felt a shiver—an echo of something vast and watchful, judging and yearning, whispering, “See me. I ruled. I fell. I remain.”

Storms rolled over. Time slid past. The flowers always returned. The field, fed by the soul of the elite, thrived. The toilet never aged. It gleamed beneath moonlight and sun alike.

It had become something holy.

And so the elite, in the end, were remembered—not by books or banners, not by dynasties or coins—but by a seat in a field of flowers, where nature and absurdity, tragedy and eternity met in porcelain peace.

Their throne.

Their soul.

Forever flush with meaning.

Thank-you for reading.

Much Love and Light,

Brenda Marie