The Labyrinth
Writing fantasy genre blogs sends you down many rabbit holes. How to differentiate fantasy from magical realism, for example. That was an interesting one, because it sent me tunnelling back through my own files in search of magical realist flash fiction I wrote myself.
Fittingly, this feels like ancient history. I think it’s the first piece of prose I ever had published, but, honestly, I can’t remember and my record-keeping is shoddy. Regardless, The Labyrinth is a magical realist revision of the Greek myth: Theseus and the Minotaur. It was originally published in Vol. 12 of Flash: The International Short, Short Story Magazine.
The Labyrinth
‘Everyone knows the story: the labyrinth, the golden thread, blah, blah.’ He rolls a hand, emphasising the boring on and ons. ‘We need to strip it down, strip it all down, make it visceral, real, make it pow.’
He slams a fist into a palm. Pauses for effect. The assistant nods, scratching it down in a lined, A5 pad. ‘You tell us, Theseus. You’re the star. This is your big comeback. What do you want to say?’
I’m a fraud. But that just comes out as a tiny bit of breath at the back of my throat. He looks at me, the fork of his tongue tasting his own lips.
The barrista slides the tray down onto our table, and we all sit back into our armchairs.
‘This is soy, isn’t it?’ the producer points at his cup gingerly, like it might bite him. The barrista nods. ‘Decaf?’ He nods again, but doesn’t leave. There’s a biro tucked behind his ear, an embarrassed rash creeping up his neck.
I unscrew the cap of a 50cl bottle of Bell’s, top up my Americano. Everyone has their own expert way of not noticing these things. The assistant scourges a mistake from his pad. The producer pulls an imaginary hair from the frothy icecap of his latte. The barrista shuffles off, giving up on the autograph.
‘So,’ the producer tries again. ‘Tell us something that nobody knows. Something we can use, something that’ll fly right in the face of those tabloids. We’ll show them: “Theseus, still a hero”.’
The bull hanged itself, and the air tasted of salt and iron. A girl was on the stained floor, unmoving, a sacrifice. I thought there were flowers laid out, bouquets for a car crash victim. Red and pink stains, clumps of tissue like reeking potpourri. The stillborn thing nestled between her thighs. Umbilical cord like my golden thread. A creamy bonnet of infantile horns.
When Ariadne opened her legs, all I could see was the ruin from the labyrinth. A mewling calf bursting out onto that starlit shore.
So I left her on the beach.
They’re waiting for me to say something.
