Minotaur by Phillip W. Simpson

the other athletes, but it was more than enough for me.
    The bull was ushered into the far side of the arena. It was a massive beast, much larger than any other I’d seen that day. Not only that, but it was white. Minos, in his none too subtle way, was sending me a message.
    The bull was already in a lather. Someone had been working it up into a killing frenzy. It caught sight of me and immediately charged, giving me no time to plan my assault. As it got nearer, I finally noticed something else different. Its horns, more massive than my own, were uncovered. They glinted wickedly in the sun. This was not how it was supposed to be. I sensed the hand of Minos guiding events once again and knew his intention. He didn’t want me to leave the arena alive. He could get rid of his hated son without fear of reprisals from his family, the people of Crete, or Poseidon himself. Not that many would have likely cared if I died but even a king couldn’t kill his son without consequence.
    Poseidon had decreed that I could not die at the hand of Minos but he said nothing about a bull. Minos’ hatred knew no bounds and he was prepared to risk it. Perhaps he thought that if I died in a supposed accident, Poseidon would not avenge my death. Minos was never the wisest of men. The gods may be many things but they are neither blind nor stupid.
    The knowledge was sobering, but it also filled me with determination. Determination I’d never felt before. I would succeed here. I would show Minos and the people of Crete that there was more to me than just a lumbering, deformed giant. I would survive despite the intentions of my father.
    I sprinted directly at the charging bull. When I say sprint, it was more of a lumbering plod but you get the idea. It had lowered its head, intent on goring me. Unlike most of my practice sessions, this time I got my timing right. Well, almost.
    I grasped the bull’s horns, but not before I felt a slight nick as one sharpened point grazed my palm. And then I was soaring through the air. As Androgeus had predicted, this bull was strong enough to provide the lift necessary to propel me upward and over. I flipped in mid-air, hoping to land on my feet behind the bull.
    My timing was almost perfect but not quite. The bull, as I mentioned earlier, was huge. The push I received was not enough. Not only that, but I hadn’t had time to accelerate to full speed. As a result, I landed almost head first on the back of the bull. I felt the sickening impact as my own horns penetrated deeply into the beasts flesh. It roared in mortal anguish. My momentum carried us both to the ground, with me still pinned to its back.
    The bull was clearly in its death throes. It thrashed about, leaking copious amounts of blood over me, pooling on the soil beneath us. It gave one last bellow of pain and then succumbed to its grievous injury.
    I got to my feet and pried myself away from the dead bull. More blood spurted from the parallel wounds as I yanked my horns out. It was only then that I noticed the absence of noise in the arena. All was deathly quiet.
    I looked up, catching the eye of my father. His mouth was twisted in hatred. Before I could move, he was already on his feet, furiously marching out of the Monarch’s box.
    There was a grumble of discordant noise from the crowd. A few cheers cried out but they soon quieted down. Most in the crowd realized what this meant. This was a sign from the gods and not a good one either. I had killed a sacred animal. Not only that, but I had killed a sacred animal with horns that were universally regarded as a sign of divine disfavor. This was not good.
    I felt an arm tug at mine. I looked down in a daze and saw Androgeus there.
    “Come, Asterion. Time to leave.”
    Numbly, I let him lead me out of the arena. Phaedra was waiting for me. She was taking a huge risk seeing me like this but concern for my safety had overridden common sense.
    She and Androgeus guided me back to the palace. The festival was