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Here are the posts for the topic 'minotaur' from my mailing list, Fantasybits.
by JacLyn Jones (jasujo@hotmail.com)
The minotaur stood at his post. A crisp breeze blew through his scraggly, whitish-grey fur and his sheepskin loincloth waved in the wind. His strong, powerful muscles were relaxed, but alert. In his left hand, stood his spear. The long wooden shaft was almost as tall as he was. Tied just below the spearhead with a leather thong, its three fawn-colored feathers floated in the breeze as if dancing to a forgotten melody. He stood watching. The rock under his hooves was cold to the touch, but the footing was solid. From his perch, the valley spread out before him. The mountain slid to a crumbly halt, where it drizzled into a meadow. The meadow gently flowed until it slipped between a winding treeline. The trees grew into a forest. The emerald tops were like a velvet blanket undulating in the air. A hoof moved slightly, creating a small scratch in the rock. The whistling wind blocked out all other sounds. The sky grew darker and still he watched, silent and motionless.
As the distant hills began to caress the slipping sun, a low rumbling escaped the minotaur’s lips. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His song of mourning had begun. It started as a single note, cascading into lonely riffs. It grew louder as he tapped the ache in his heart for the notes. The music soared and flew with wings of sorrow, dipping and twisting with unrelenting pain. It searched out the hollows in the mountains and resounded back with a harmony to the minotaur’s melody. His song was sweet with memories, yet bitter with loss. The power of it filled him and passed through him. Finally, as it slowed down, he slumped over as if a heavy weight pressed him. The last rays of the sun were just peaking over the horizon. His eyes opened and he fingered the turquoise beads wrapped around his right wrist. Suddenly, strength filled him again and he raised a fist to the dying sun, holding up her necklace. He defiantly shook his powerful arm as if showing that he would go on.
The shuffling of hooves was heard from behind him and the minotaur spun around, with hope gleaming in his eyes. He saw another minotaur approach and, unbelieving, he took one faithful step forward. As the minotaur drew closer, he looked away and the emotions flew from his eyes. They were now as dull as the beads in his hand. It was clear that the burly, dark-brown minotaur walking up the path was not her, nor would it ever be. It was his relief. When the other minotaur reached the top, they grunted a quick greeting, their clouds of breath briefly intermingling. Then the dark minotaur took his place and he walked down the path toward the camp with his head proudly raised. He clenched the old, worn beads between his fingers as if they were the most precious of gems.
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