Last of the Minotaur



The minotaur is alone. His tribe has been wiped out and he fears he may be the last of his kind.

He picks up a fallen sword and notes it’s design is human. He drops the weapon in the blood stain dirt and as the early summer sun sets, he walks a ways from his still smoldering village.

He finds a secluded area and says a prayer to Poseidon.

He thanks the God of the sea for forcing Pasiphae, the queen of Crete, to fall in love with a bull.

That love affair yielded centuries of culture, but now that is over.

He will honor those traditions.

With a mournful cry he swings his pick. It bites into the soil and he pulls free a clump of grass and roots.

He swings again and again until he reaches bedrock.

Then the hard work begins. Small chips of rock hit him as he inches his way forward. He scraps and chisels. He carves. He makes turns and dead ends.

The seasons come and go. Maybe years. Maybe decades. Time means nothing any longer.

As he finishes a large chamber that marks the end of the labyrinth he lays his exhausted bleeding and broken body on the smooth stone floor.

In the end he shaped a looping maze that if viewed from above would look like a blooming oak tree.

But his work is not done.

It takes three hundred trips to bring the remains of his people into Labyrinth. He lays them in a cylindrical pattern on the floor.

As a farewell he wishes them luck in the afterlife and exits.

He steps into deep snow with no intention of ever returning to the land he has known since he was a calf. But before his journey can begin he fills in the hole he dug. He piles the large chunks of bedrock against the opening to the maze and fills in the fifty hands high hole with dirt.

He finishes by replanting the now frozen and browned clumps of grass and roots.

He taps down the sod and with one final cry to the winter moon turns his back on his work deciding no human is safe as long as breath fills his lungs.


Author: Bryan Aiello

I call NYC home and wish the subway went everywhere and Times Square didn't suck. I saw John Turturro once. Maybe it was him. He was wearing a yellow shirt and smiled at me like he knew I knew. I am an Army vet who writes. I like characters who want more then they deserve. I like genre fiction. I love space. I love paladins. One day I might write a paladin in space story. Just you wait. The university of South Florida spit me out with a degree in creative writing and I find myself questioning the sanity of going to a school that advertises a fake beach on its brochure ever since. I intuit grammar. I Got married in 2012 We had twins in 2015. I do a lot of cooking and dog walking and ranting about the unfairness of sentience. You can follow me on Twitter: @bryaiello Wattpad: My Subreddit: My Reddit profile: Like my work? Become a patron at:

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