Theseus the Bull Slayer
by Al McClimens
Glorified holding-pen really. Didn’t see the need for it myself. It’s not like I was going anywhere in a hurry. The nearest island was too far to swim to and anyway, the service was pretty good. Fresh meat every other day, if you don’t mind sacrificing your own sheep. The decor was a bit boring though. I mean, have you ever been in a labyrinth? Well, you’ve seen one maze you’ve seen ‘em all, believe me. I know whereof I speak.
Anyway, one day this young lad strolls into the compound. Handsome, if you go for the oiled torso and polished armor look. Very Hellenic. The kind of profile you might see on a gold coin. Lost your dog, mate? I asks him. He’s got a piece of string in his hand. Oh, that, he says, chucking it away. No, and he stands there looking a bit gormless, if I’m honest. And was that an Athenian accent?
Eh, this is a bit awkward, he goes. Cos I’m supposed to kill you. He’s got a sword in his hand that would be useful as a nail clipper but I didn’t want to say anything. I just let the remark hang there for a bit then let out a bellow they could hear on Mount Olympus. Fair play to the kid, he joined in and we had a good laugh about it. But seriously, he says, then he launches into a tale of myth and broken promises. Lots of legend potential and ode material. Plus he had figured out the practical details. And so here I am, he says, when it’s done. It’s written in the stars and is my fate.
The sun was going down by then so I suggested we order in some retsina and lamb kebabs, sleep on it and figure something out in the morning. Sounds like a plan, he says. We had a decent night. Sang some songs, recited some poetry, raised a glass or three to the gods and next day over breakfast came up with the following:
Let me get this right, I says, Nobody in the outside world has ever seen me? He shakes his head. No, nobody. Right, I goes, so you could stroll out of here with a bloodied sword, some sheep bones and scraps of meat on a skewer, stick a pair of horns on your head and proclaim the death of the monster and nobody would be any the wiser. He just grinned. That’s so crazy, he said, it might just work.
Long story short, I buried him by the latrine, squeezed myself into his metalwork and ran out the gate yelling at the sky. I followed the thread and found Ariadne waiting at the ship. There’s something different about you, she said. Your beard’s grown. Now come over here, gorgeous, and kiss me.
I could go on in hendecasyllables and relate more of my adventures and chart my quest for greater glory but that, as they say in the trade, is quite another story.
Al McClimens (he/him) is a Sheffield based writer and old enough to know better but cute enough to carry on. An unemployed waster, Scrabble fan and lapsed socialist he reads a novel a week and writes a poem a day. He will work for food. Please give generously. He dabbles in prose fiction but should really be discouraged from this practice. His debut collection ‘The Other Infidelities’ was published by Pindrop Press in 2021. And it’s actually pretty good. No, seriously.