"The Maze" - ACWclub Writing Contest #86

1 2	"The Maze" (the eighty-sixth ACWclub monthly writing contest)	3 4
	Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Maze" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), Oct 15, 2008 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent.

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The Maze
By glenlee10@sky.com
(Entry #1)

~Winning Entry~

“Hey! Jase!” Mick threw a scrunched up sheet of paper to get his colleague’s attention. Jason swatted it from his desk without looking up.

“Pack it in, moron.”

“I’m taking an early lunch,” Mick said.

Oh, yeah?” Jason was total disinterested in Mick’s comings and goings, apparently.

“Gonna go ‘n pay that speeding fine.”

“Ah,” Jason said. “I’ll see you next week then.”

Mick snatched his mobile from his desk and unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’ll be back by two, at the latest.”

“You haven’t heard?” Jason turned from his computer. “People have been known to go in there and never be seen again.” He grinned. “If you don’t come back, can I have your stapler?”

“Damn fool,” Mick muttered.

He checked the warrant he’d received from the Ministry for the Receipt of Fiscal Responsibilities that morning. Yes, it definitely said the charge was £500 if paid within 48 hours, with a penalty charge of £500 for, “every additional hour or part thereafter,” for any outstanding amount unpaid after the deadline. That damned speed camera half way along the dual carriageway near Tesco had booked him at 3pm. on Monday. It was now Wednesday, twelve noon. He had 3 hours to pay the damned government its blood money.

The offices of the R.F.R. were in the centre of town, only a short walk away. Sauntering down the road, he saw a slender blonde wearing an apple green business suit and aqua-green killer heels. The shoes were obviously new and she hadn’t yet got them under control because she was slightly tottery and was having to take small steps. The heels must have been 6 inches tall and the soles of the shoes were a couple of inches thick. The shoes looked dangerous but she did have an incredibly shaped rear end because of them. Enjoying the view, he continued to follow her and soon they were climbing the steep flight of steps up to the solidly impressive stone symbol of Victorian success that now housed the offices of the Ministry for the Receipt of Fiscal Responsibilities.

Before entering the building, he checked his watch. 1pm. No problem. Jason had been talking through the top of his head as usual. He’d be out within ten minutes. Maximum! He stepped into the circle of the revolving door. And pushed. It didn’t budge. He pushed again, harder. He looked at the floor, assumed a blob of chewing gum was preventing the door from moving, the stuff was everywhere, after all. But instead, on the door, low down he saw a small, off-white notice. Written in faint biro, Mick read, “Out of Order. Use side door”.

“Shit!” He backed out. He looked to the left, then to the right. He could see no other doors and no indication of which way he should go to find the ‘side door’. He chose wrong. Went left and had to walk nearly all the way round the building.

“Bloody typical!” he muttered when he finally found a single door through which a stream of people was battling for access against a flood of employees determined to go for lunch. He saw the Green Woman force her way into the building past a squat grandmotherly person of plump proportions who was trying to get out. The old woman’s language was colourful. Mick tried the same procedure but was flattened against the outside, hard, stone wall by what appeared to be an Irish navvy in a blue serge suit and old school tie and as graphic a way with words as grandma had.

Dusting his sleeve, Mick tried again, succeeding by forcing an anorexic, blonde back inside.

“Survival of the fittest, sweetheart,” he grunted.

Two narrow corridors fed scurrying people into and out of a dimly lit hall. Another choice. He picked the left hand corridor. The rush to lunch seemed to be abating. Of the Green Woman, there was no sign.

It took ten minutes of brisk walking, dodging stragglers and several groups of giggling, gaggling tarty girls, before Mick reached the foyer at the front of the building. The large, white-faced clock above the lifts read 1.30pm.

“It’s never that time?” he exclaimed.

He saw the Green Woman. She was turning away from a concierge who was straightening papers on his desk near the revolving door. To Mick’s annoyance, the door seemed to be working perfectly well now. He stomped across the marble floor and stood in a queue with two other people, angrily fidgeting from foot to foot and back again until it was his turn.

“Speeding fines?” he demanded peremptorily, leaning over the desk. “Should be some sodding signs,” he challenged the concierge, “so I don’t have to waste my time standing in queues, waiting for you to finish your nice little chats. Come on! Where do I go to pay a speeding fine?”

The concierge stared hard at Mick, looked him up and down. Took his time about it.

“5th Floor,” he said finally.

Without a word of thanks, Mick strode across the foyer, skirted a sign, which said, “Wet Floor”, and headed for the three lifts. The doors of the furthest lift were closing on the Green Woman. The mechanism of the nearest lift groaned. A bell pinged. The doors stuttered open. Mick entered the lift and stabbed button No.5. A skinny woman with over-large, bobbing breasts ran in, breathing heavily.

“Thank you for holding the lift for me,” she giggled.

“I didn’t!”

Her smile vanished leaving a very plain face on the verge of tears. She hesitated. Mick moved his weight very slightly, allowing her to reach past him. She pushed button No.6 as the doors juddered to a slow close. Her breast brushed against his arm. He flinched.

The lift rose. When it stopped and the doors had opened, Mick was the first off. The girl’s breasts danced a Mexican Wave as she scurried away. Mick stopped mid-stride. There was a large, red, “Floor 6”, painted on the wall.

“What the………!” He turned. The lift doors had closed considerably faster than they’d opened. Mick kicked them. He stubbed his toe and heard the lift depart.

Cussing, he looked for some stairs, saw a door. Found a broom cupboard. It stank of damp floor cloths. He slammed the door, swore again and went back to the lift. He stabbed the Ground Floor button, twice. Then a third time for luck. Once inside the lift again, he did the same to the No.5 button. The lift descended. When the doors opened, he peered out cautiously. He was back in the foyer.

Shouting, he ran across to the concierge. The Green Woman was at the head of a long queue. The concierge saw him coming and smiled.

“Didn’t read the small print, did you Sir? As I was just explaining to this lady, you must always read the small print. Sir!”

He turned to the Green Woman. “You see, the lift doesn’t stop at the 5th Floor.” He gestured for her to stand back. He pointed to a small notice sellotaped to the front of his desk. “Please note,” it said, “lifts in foyer do not stop at 5th Floor.”

“See?” The concierge’s grin was the width of the Cheshire Cat’s. “You must always read the small print.”

Green Woman nodded, by which time Mick was already at the stairs. He was young but not as fit as he’d thought he was. At the 4th Floor landing he was gasping and had to stop to catch his breath before attempting the last flight. The Green Woman stomped doggedly past him, her shoes in her hand. Mick glanced at his watch.

“Chuffing hell,” he gasped. “It’s 2 o’clock already!” He grabbed the handrail and pulled himself up the remaining steps. The door to Floor 5 closed silently behind the Green Woman.

The door led directly onto a long corridor, artificially lit. There were no doors, no windows, not even a picture or a poster to mar the pale-grey walls. There was just an arrow and a very, very small sign that read, “This way for the payment of Fines levied due to Speeding, Parking, Engine idling whilst inactive for more than 5 seconds, Obstruction…” The list was long. Mick hadn’t time to read further. “Stupid bloody essay!” he grumbled.

He walked briskly down the corridor. It seemed to go on forever. He heard the echo of heels and knew the Green Woman wasn’t far ahead of him. He put on a spurt. The corridor turned 90 degrees to the right. He followed it into another long, empty corridor. He continued turning right, then right again, then right again; each corridor was the same, long and empty, except for the clack of the Green Woman’s heels, somewhere up ahead. After a while, he realised that each succeeding corridor was shorter than the one before. He felt like an insect crawling down the labyrinth of the shell of a conch or a whelk; each turn taking him towards the secret lair of a living organism as he circled towards his final destination. Surely he was almost there. He looked at his watch; saw he’d been spiralling towards the heart of the 5th Floor for twenty-five minutes.

He turned the last corner. In front of him were a dead end and a uniformed official, who looked bored and was slapping his left leg gently with a black truncheon. The official saw Mick and pointed with his truncheon into a side room. The door was open. Mick was heartened. At last, he thought, I can pay up and go.

Inside the room, a tiny Asian girl dressed in full-length black handed him a booklet. “Fill this in please,” she whispered, indicating a long shelf.

“What’s this for?” Mick demanded.

“Please,” her voice quieter than ever. “All will be explained if you read the booklet.”

Mick snatched it from her hand. At the shelf he picked up a chewed pen tied to a length of string. He started to read, conscious of the time. The Green Woman stood next to him, perspiring and mumbling under her breath. Other people stood at the shelf, scribbling and rustling through the paperwork. At the other side of the room, a queue of people waited for an official to examine the completed forms before allowing them through another door. Which I presume, Mick thought, is where I’ll finally be able to pay the bloody money.

The booklet was full of legalese. He couldn’t understand half of it. He filled in his personal details, then the details of his car and the official, excessively lengthy number from the front page of his warrant. He double-checked the number. He ticked the box on the last page to confirm that he had read and understand everything the document had listed. He tried to sign it. The pen had run out of ink.

“Shit.” Shit.” Shit.” He had to wait for someone else to finish with theirs. Green Woman threw her pen down. Mick snatched it up, signed his name and went to stand behind her in the queue.

2.45pm. Mick was sweating. The seconds were ticking away and the timing was getting too tight for comfort. Everyone else in the queue was fidgeting too. He looked over the Green Woman’s shoulder. The woman from the lift was seated behind a counter, hunched over it. Her large bosoms rested in front of her. She had to operate around then. She handed some documents back to an obese, agitated middle-aged man.

“Please re-do these,” she instructed. “You have transcribed the warrant number incorrectly.”

“Can’t I just re-do the number and sign it?” the man wiped perspiration from his top lip. “I’ll be late back to work as it is.”

“No, Sir. The Ministry will not accept alterations.”

Almost crying, the man peeled away from the head of the queue and went to start again. Mick heard the Asian lady whispering to him that no, he couldn’t just re-do the one page, he had to do the whole booklet.

2.50pm. The queue shuffled forward. There were three people and Green Woman ahead of him.

2.58. It was Green Woman’s turn. The lady with big bosoms checked the document, reached for her stamp and thumped the words, “ACCEPTED FOR PAYMENT”, managing to catch one of her mammaries as she did so.

“Oops,” she blushed.

“Never mind, dear,” Green Woman said kindly. There’s a new soap powder on the market that’ll get the ink off. It’s called…”

“Get a move on!” Mick shouted. “You’ll be swapping recipes next!”

2.59pm. Green Woman looked startled. The lady with big bosoms looked at her watch. “Just go through that door and pay,” she said kindly to Green Woman. “And please close the door behind you.”

3.00pm. “Ah, yes,” the lady with big bosoms said. “I remember you. From the lift. You were a little bit tetchy I seem to remember.”

Mick tried to smile. “Much as I would love to chat,” he said through gritted teeth, “I really don’t have the time. Now if you could just stamp this,” he thrust the document towards her, “I’ll be on my way.”

She looked at her watch. “Oh, I am so sorry, Sir. But it’s two minutes after three and this position is closed.” She slammed down a roller blind between the two of them.

“But what do I do now?” Mick howled.

The uniformed official appeared at his elbow. “Come back tomorrow, Sir. The counter will be open from 9 am. to 3 pm.”

“But the delay’ll cost me thousands of pounds…”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And I haven’t got that kind of money…”

“No, Sir?”

“Can’t you just, yuh know, this once…”

“No, Sir.”

“But what can I do?”

“Give me your documents, Sir and you need do nothing further. Everything will be taken care off.” The uniformed official held out his hand.

“What do you mean?” Mick asked suspiciously, but handing the papers over nevertheless.

“Did you sign this document, Sir?”

“Yes. Of course, I did. I was supposed to,” Mick spat.

“Did you read the document carefully before signing it, Sir?”

“Well…most of it.”

“Ah, I see, Sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“You were aware, were you not, that in lieu of non-payment of the fine, you have transferred ownership of your vehicle and/or goods to the value of the overdue amount to the Ministry?”

The uniformed official looked down on Mick who had fainted. “Yes, Sir. I thought so. You didn’t study paragraph 3, subparagraph 5(vi) carefully enough, now did you, Sir?”

Home

The Maze
By Colin Campbell
www.colincampbell.org
(Entry #4)

~Runner Up~

Another gust helped the cold morning rain find it's way past the protection of the new woolen cloak. Jerome pulled it tighter around his shoulders. He tried to ignore the group of local girls watching and giggling in the shelter of a doorway, but they had seen him.

One of the older girls pointed and called out loud against the wind, "Little Jerome starts his new job today. Better watch out he doesn't turn himself into a frog." The girls started making loud frog noises, some more realistically than others.

Jerome waved over to the girls as pleasantly and with as much dignity as he could manage in the circumstances. But inside, he was harboring dark adolescent thoughts. 'They'll be singing a different tune when I get the powers. Oh yes, I'll have lots of women wanting to do things to me once I'm apprenticed to the Old Wizard.'

He walked on, avoiding the puddles with a new spring in his step as he thought about what such things might be. So gripped was he by these thoughts that he barely noticed the many miles on the way to the cave of the Old Wizard, deep in the mountains where no one from the town ever went.

It was late afternoon when Jerome reached the cave. There was no sign of the Old Wizard. He knew he dare not enter uninvited and he was way too fearful to call out. So he sat down on a long flat rock near the mouth of the cave and waited. All the time he was thinking of the wicked secrets that might be waiting for him in there.

For what seemed a very long time he sat still all the while peering into the depths of the unlit cave entrance. Suddenly, he realized something had changed. He was no longer alone. The Old Wizard was sitting quietly on the flat rock right beside him.

The young apprentice jumped quickly to his feet. "Sorry Sir," he said. "I didn't know you were there. How can you do that?"

"Don't ask. You have much to learn first. When you're ready, you'll know without asking." The reply came softly and the Old Wizard seemed to be looking far away. " I was thinking how much you remind me of my first day in the craft. A day like this but long, long ago. The day when I did The Maze myself."

"The Maze?

"Yes, young lad. You must do The Maze. We all have to do The Maze before we can start."

"Like a test?"

"Oh yes, it will test you.

"And then I can be your apprentice?"

"Yes, just go in," said the Old Wizard gesturing towards the dark depths of the cave. "Then do what it takes to come back out again. You'll be alright. You're a smart young lad and you've got a good tongue in you're head ."

Suddenly, Jerome found himself alone in the cave. It was time. The Old Wizard had gone and the darkness was closing around him.

And then, nothing. Jerome waited and waited. It became colder and once again he was glad to have his woolen cloak. The light outside started to fade. Knowing he must do something, anything, he called out in a voice as clear and steady as he could manage. "I'm here for The Maze."

At once, the ground opened and he was drifting down through the darkness in a gentle descent, controlled by an invisible hand. Reaching out, Jerome found he could touch the living rock as it opened to allow him to pass through. It was warm, like something living.

And then, he was in a narrow tunnel and he could see for there was a faint greenish light all around and he was going forward and there was wind in his face. He soon came to a fork in the tunnel. One way sloped down and one sloped up. He took the branch that sloped up. Again and again the young lad came to forks in the tunnel and again and again he took the path that sloped up. And then he found he was back where he started at the very first fork.

So he started taking the branches that sloped down. They led him far underground to where there was singing.

At first the sound was faint and far ahead. Drawing closer, Jerome could make out that it was more of a tuneless and reverberating chant than a song.

Finally the tunnel opened out into a cavern well provided with strange artifacts that clearly had no place in ordinary life. There was a strong red flickering light here and Jerome gasped when he saw the singers in their long black cloaks. He counted thirteen and there could be no doubt. This was a coven and they were all turning to move towards him.

The closer they came, the more hideous they seemed. The young lad raised a hand to his mouth to conceal that he was struggling not to gag on account of the smell that surrounded them. Their cloaks hid much and Jerome reckoned they had much to hide. What was very clearly in view was a succession of grey wrinkled faces each one punctuated with more hairy warts than the one before. They now seemed to be forming a line in order of precedence eager to become acquainted with the new apprentice.

Jerome used every ounce of self discipline he could muster to hide his disgust for he sensed that this was a time above all others in his young life when disobedience or disrespect would surely bring terrible danger.

Without speaking, the Leader of the Coven looked Jerome straight in the eye as if looking for any challenge to her authority. Seeing none, she beckoned the young lad to follow her into a small sparsely furnished side chamber.

Once in the privacy of the side chamber, she spoke loudly, her voice cackling as if at some timeless and tasteless joke. "There is one way out of The Maze. Only one and you must take it now, right now or stay here with us for eternity."

"What must I do?" said Jerome.

The dreadful old hag now let her cloak slip off revealing soiled red lingerie that strained to contain a hideously misshapen figure.

"Well my dear," she said. "You can start by putting your tongue in my ear and we'll just take it from there."

The WCA's
The Writers' Choice Awards

Here's how the members of the ACWclub voted for their favorite entries:

First place:
#3

Second place:
#4

Third place:
#1

Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.

The Maze glenlee10@sky.com	#1 of 4 Winner
2365 words
“Hey! Jase!” Mick threw a scrunched up sheet of paper to get his colleague’s attention. Jason swatted it from his desk without looking up. “Pack it in, moron.” “I’m taking an early lunch,” Mick said. Oh, yeah?” Jason was total disinterested in Mick’s comings and goings, apparently. “Gonna go ‘n pay that speeding fine.” “Ah,” Jason said. “I’ll see you next week then.” Mick snatched his mobile from his desk and unhooked his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’ll be back by two, at the latest.” “You haven’t heard?” Jason turned from his computer. “People have been known to go in there and never be seen again.” He grinned. “If you don’t come back, can I have your stapler?” “Damn fool,” Mick muttered. He checked the warrant he’d received from the Ministry for the Receipt of Fiscal Responsibilities that morning. Yes, it definitely said the charge was £500 if paid within 48 hours, with a penalty charge of £500 for, “every additional hour or part thereafter,” for any outstanding amount unpaid after the deadline. That damned speed camera half way along the dual carriageway near Tesco had booked him at 3pm. on Monday. It was now Wednesday, twelve noon. He had 3 hours to pay the damned government its blood money. The offices of the R.F.R. were in the centre of town, only a short walk away. Sauntering down the road, he saw a slender blonde wearing an apple green business suit and aqua-green killer heels. The shoes were obviously new and she hadn’t yet got them under control because she was slightly tottery and was having to take small steps. The heels must have been 6 inches tall and the soles of the shoes were a couple of inches thick. The shoes looked dangerous but she did have an incredibly shaped rear end because of them. Enjoying the view, he continued to follow her and soon they were climbing the steep flight of steps up to the solidly impressive stone symbol of Victorian success that now housed the offices of the Ministry for the Receipt of Fiscal Responsibilities. Before entering the building, he checked his watch. 1pm. No problem. Jason had been talking through the top of his head as usual. He’d be out within ten minutes. Maximum! He stepped into the circle of the revolving door. And pushed. It didn’t budge. He pushed again, harder. He looked at the floor, assumed a blob of chewing gum was preventing the door from moving, the stuff was everywhere, after all. But instead, on the door, low down he saw a small, off-white notice. Written in faint biro, Mick read, “Out of Order. Use side door”. “Shit!” He backed out. He looked to the left, then to the right. He could see no other doors and no indication of which way he should go to find the ‘side door’. He chose wrong. Went left and had to walk nearly all the way round the building. “Bloody typical!” he muttered when he finally found a single door through which a stream of people was battling for access against a flood of employees determined to go for lunch. He saw the Green Woman force her way into the building past a squat grandmotherly person of plump proportions who was trying to get out. The old woman’s language was colourful. Mick tried the same procedure but was flattened against the outside, hard, stone wall by what appeared to be an Irish navvy in a blue serge suit and old school tie and as graphic a way with words as grandma had. Dusting his sleeve, Mick tried again, succeeding by forcing an anorexic, blonde back inside. “Survival of the fittest, sweetheart,” he grunted. Two narrow corridors fed scurrying people into and out of a dimly lit hall. Another choice. He picked the left hand corridor. The rush to lunch seemed to be abating. Of the Green Woman, there was no sign. It took ten minutes of brisk walking, dodging stragglers and several groups of giggling, gaggling tarty girls, before Mick reached the foyer at the front of the building. The large, white-faced clock above the lifts read 1.30pm. “It’s never that time?” he exclaimed. He saw the Green Woman. She was turning away from a concierge who was straightening papers on his desk near the revolving door. To Mick’s annoyance, the door seemed to be working perfectly well now. He stomped across the marble floor and stood in a queue with two other people, angrily fidgeting from foot to foot and back again until it was his turn. “Speeding fines?” he demanded peremptorily, leaning over the desk. “Should be some sodding signs,” he challenged the concierge, “so I don’t have to waste my time standing in queues, waiting for you to finish your nice little chats. Come on! Where do I go to pay a speeding fine?” The concierge stared hard at Mick, looked him up and down. Took his time about it. “5th Floor,” he said finally. Without a word of thanks, Mick strode across the foyer, skirted a sign, which said, “Wet Floor”, and headed for the three lifts. The doors of the furthest lift were closing on the Green Woman. The mechanism of the nearest lift groaned. A bell pinged. The doors stuttered open. Mick entered the lift and stabbed button No.5. A skinny woman with over-large, bobbing breasts ran in, breathing heavily. “Thank you for holding the lift for me,” she giggled. “I didn’t!” Her smile vanished leaving a very plain face on the verge of tears. She hesitated. Mick moved his weight very slightly, allowing her to reach past him. She pushed button No.6 as the doors juddered to a slow close. Her breast brushed against his arm. He flinched. The lift rose. When it stopped and the doors had opened, Mick was the first off. The girl’s breasts danced a Mexican Wave as she scurried away. Mick stopped mid-stride. There was a large, red, “Floor 6”, painted on the wall. “What the………!” He turned. The lift doors had closed considerably faster than they’d opened. Mick kicked them. He stubbed his toe and heard the lift depart. Cussing, he looked for some stairs, saw a door. Found a broom cupboard. It stank of damp floor cloths. He slammed the door, swore again and went back to the lift. He stabbed the Ground Floor button, twice. Then a third time for luck. Once inside the lift again, he did the same to the No.5 button. The lift descended. When the doors opened, he peered out cautiously. He was back in the foyer. Shouting, he ran across to the concierge. The Green Woman was at the head of a long queue. The concierge saw him coming and smiled. “Didn’t read the small print, did you Sir? As I was just explaining to this lady, you must always read the small print. Sir!” He turned to the Green Woman. “You see, the lift doesn’t stop at the 5th Floor.” He gestured for her to stand back. He pointed to a small notice sellotaped to the front of his desk. “Please note,” it said, “lifts in foyer do not stop at 5th Floor.” “See?” The concierge’s grin was the width of the Cheshire Cat’s. “You must always read the small print.” Green Woman nodded, by which time Mick was already at the stairs. He was young but not as fit as he’d thought he was. At the 4th Floor landing he was gasping and had to stop to catch his breath before attempting the last flight. The Green Woman stomped doggedly past him, her shoes in her hand. Mick glanced at his watch. “Chuffing hell,” he gasped. “It’s 2 o’clock already!” He grabbed the handrail and pulled himself up the remaining steps. The door to Floor 5 closed silently behind the Green Woman. The door led directly onto a long corridor, artificially lit. There were no doors, no windows, not even a picture or a poster to mar the pale-grey walls. There was just an arrow and a very, very small sign that read, “This way for the payment of Fines levied due to Speeding, Parking, Engine idling whilst inactive for more than 5 seconds, Obstruction…” The list was long. Mick hadn’t time to read further. “Stupid bloody essay!” he grumbled. He walked briskly down the corridor. It seemed to go on forever. He heard the echo of heels and knew the Green Woman wasn’t far ahead of him. He put on a spurt. The corridor turned 90 degrees to the right. He followed it into another long, empty corridor. He continued turning right, then right again, then right again; each corridor was the same, long and empty, except for the clack of the Green Woman’s heels, somewhere up ahead. After a while, he realised that each succeeding corridor was shorter than the one before. He felt like an insect crawling down the labyrinth of the shell of a conch or a whelk; each turn taking him towards the secret lair of a living organism as he circled towards his final destination. Surely he was almost there. He looked at his watch; saw he’d been spiralling towards the heart of the 5th Floor for twenty-five minutes. He turned the last corner. In front of him were a dead end and a uniformed official, who looked bored and was slapping his left leg gently with a black truncheon. The official saw Mick and pointed with his truncheon into a side room. The door was open. Mick was heartened. At last, he thought, I can pay up and go. Inside the room, a tiny Asian girl dressed in full-length black handed him a booklet. “Fill this in please,” she whispered, indicating a long shelf. “What’s this for?” Mick demanded. “Please,” her voice quieter than ever. “All will be explained if you read the booklet.” Mick snatched it from her hand. At the shelf he picked up a chewed pen tied to a length of string. He started to read, conscious of the time. The Green Woman stood next to him, perspiring and mumbling under her breath. Other people stood at the shelf, scribbling and rustling through the paperwork. At the other side of the room, a queue of people waited for an official to examine the completed forms before allowing them through another door. Which I presume, Mick thought, is where I’ll finally be able to pay the bloody money. The booklet was full of legalese. He couldn’t understand half of it. He filled in his personal details, then the details of his car and the official, excessively lengthy number from the front page of his warrant. He double-checked the number. He ticked the box on the last page to confirm that he had read and understand everything the document had listed. He tried to sign it. The pen had run out of ink. “Shit.” Shit.” Shit.” He had to wait for someone else to finish with theirs. Green Woman threw her pen down. Mick snatched it up, signed his name and went to stand behind her in the queue. 2.45pm. Mick was sweating. The seconds were ticking away and the timing was getting too tight for comfort. Everyone else in the queue was fidgeting too. He looked over the Green Woman’s shoulder. The woman from the lift was seated behind a counter, hunched over it. Her large bosoms rested in front of her. She had to operate around then. She handed some documents back to an obese, agitated middle-aged man. “Please re-do these,” she instructed. “You have transcribed the warrant number incorrectly.” “Can’t I just re-do the number and sign it?” the man wiped perspiration from his top lip. “I’ll be late back to work as it is.” “No, Sir. The Ministry will not accept alterations.” Almost crying, the man peeled away from the head of the queue and went to start again. Mick heard the Asian lady whispering to him that no, he couldn’t just re-do the one page, he had to do the whole booklet. 2.50pm. The queue shuffled forward. There were three people and Green Woman ahead of him. 2.58. It was Green Woman’s turn. The lady with big bosoms checked the document, reached for her stamp and thumped the words, “ACCEPTED FOR PAYMENT”, managing to catch one of her mammaries as she did so. “Oops,” she blushed. “Never mind, dear,” Green Woman said kindly. There’s a new soap powder on the market that’ll get the ink off. It’s called…” “Get a move on!” Mick shouted. “You’ll be swapping recipes next!” 2.59pm. Green Woman looked startled. The lady with big bosoms looked at her watch. “Just go through that door and pay,” she said kindly to Green Woman. “And please close the door behind you.” 3.00pm. “Ah, yes,” the lady with big bosoms said. “I remember you. From the lift. You were a little bit tetchy I seem to remember.” Mick tried to smile. “Much as I would love to chat,” he said through gritted teeth, “I really don’t have the time. Now if you could just stamp this,” he thrust the document towards her, “I’ll be on my way.” She looked at her watch. “Oh, I am so sorry, Sir. But it’s two minutes after three and this position is closed.” She slammed down a roller blind between the two of them. “But what do I do now?” Mick howled. The uniformed official appeared at his elbow. “Come back tomorrow, Sir. The counter will be open from 9 am. to 3 pm.” “But the delay’ll cost me thousands of pounds…” “Yes, Sir.” “And I haven’t got that kind of money…” “No, Sir?” “Can’t you just, yuh know, this once…” “No, Sir.” “But what can I do?” “Give me your documents, Sir and you need do nothing further. Everything will be taken care off.” The uniformed official held out his hand. “What do you mean?” Mick asked suspiciously, but handing the papers over nevertheless. “Did you sign this document, Sir?” “Yes. Of course, I did. I was supposed to,” Mick spat. “Did you read the document carefully before signing it, Sir?” “Well…most of it.” “Ah, I see, Sir.” “What do you mean?” “You were aware, were you not, that in lieu of non-payment of the fine, you have transferred ownership of your vehicle and/or goods to the value of the overdue amount to the Ministry?” The uniformed official looked down on Mick who had fainted. “Yes, Sir. I thought so. You didn’t study paragraph 3, subparagraph 5(vi) carefully enough, now did you, Sir?”

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The Maze ksharris_781@yahoo.com.au	#2 of 4
140 words
So many choices, gives way to more possibilities Endless days of dreaming and yearning Shapes who we are Good or bad, turn left or turn right Hedged too high to see the outcome Of what we become Mystical maze, or so I once thought Sixteen and too naïve to see Safety means monotony Years of wandering to the centre of this Not knowing when will reach it Hoping not now Playing by the rules of money and income Locked in to a straight path of nine to six I am swallowed Tempted by a handsome confidant someone Turning my back on that wrong turn Leaves me empty Children come and hold my hand Then go and make their own hedged journey They forget me I walk on by, crunching down autumn leaves I can see it, just round the corner, and realize Years have passed The attainment of the centre of this maze Then to see before me what my life amounts to A beautiful grave

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The Maze DaNice D Marshall d4bm7@yahoo.com	#3 of 4
2236 words
Albert Kincaid, formerly of 24 Darby Street in West Philadelphia was homeless. It was the end result of a series of mishaps, events that included bad choices, wrong turns and graphic mistakes, all of which had conveniently been forgotten, as he struggled to learn how to live life out on the streets. Homelessness does not come with a handbook. It was a quiet night, Albert and some other homeless people had gathered on the wharf and were huddled around a fire for warmth. They also blew into their cupped hands and shifted their weight from one foot to the other, over and over again. It might’ve looked like they were dancing, but actually it was a survival ritual that kept them awake, warm and most importantly, kept them alive. Albert looked intently at the fire’s flames, and watched as his breath rose like the smoke, up into the night sky. The sound of a vehicle’s tires on the wharf's wooden planks was an unwanted intrusion. "Who's that?" someone asked. They turned and watched as a white van with black call letters, slowed to a stop. A few moments passed, then two men climbed out the van. One carried a video camera and the other a microphone. "Merry Christmas," they shouted, as they came. "Got any change?" Albert asked and the others leaned forward in eager anticipation. Hopeful, that the happy greeting might bring gifts. "Well, no, not exactly," the man replied. "We're doing a story on homelessness and we're hoping to put a face on your plight for our viewers." "Got a drink for a guy down on his luck?" someone asked. "No, I'm sorry. I don't." Some of the men stepped back, disappointed and disinterested. But Albert stepped closer, a bit hopeful and smiled. “How much you willing to pay for an interview?" he asked. "Um, we don't have money,” the man seemed a bit uneasy now. “Not right now, but if we can get the word out and people get to see how you’re living… Well, I'd hope to see relief, you know get some funding for you people." “Yeah, we hope,” someone chuckled. “So, can we interview you?” "Why not?” Albert stuck his hands deep into his pockets. "I’ll do your interview." "That's great," the newsman extended his gloved hand and the two men shook. "My name is Ted, Ted Myers. This is my camera man, Isaac Ellis. We work at WKGX." “I’m Albert," "Hi,” Ted's voice took on the professional tone and he smiled easily. “Could you repeat your name, say it again for the camera?" he gestured towards the camera that had been turned on, its bright light shining. At first Albert appeared shy and shielded his eyes, then unabashed looked straight into the camera’s lens. "My name's Albert." "And your last name?" Ted Myers's voice took on a more authoritative bass tone, as he gently nudged Albert to step closer to the camera. "Around here we don’t use last names." "Why?" Ted Myers seemed genuinely interested. Isaac Ellis zoomed the camera in, to capture Ted’s puzzled expression and then pulled back, in time to see Albert shrug his shoulders. "What happens if two people have the same name?" Ted asked. "I dunno, I guess we use one of their features," Albert smiled for a moment, slightly amused by his own thoughts, then continued. “Like we’ll call Floyd, One-Legged Floyd, or Joe, could be Big Nose Joe. You know, kinda like that." "No last names?" Ted Myers asked again, and turned to look into the camera, at his potential viewers. "No,” Albert shook his head. “Around here, if someone is looking for you by your last name, it could only mean trouble." The men behind Albert nodded in agreement. "Do you sleep out here on the wharf?" Ted adeptly changed the subject. "Not at night," Albert cast an eye at the open flames. "What’s with the fire, aren’t there city ordinances against open flames?" “Not on the wharf, those don’t apply,” Albert smiled proudly. "The mayor himself came down here and told us that, as long as we keep it on the wharf and we build it in the steel drum.” "Oh, so in effect, the city issued you a special permit?" Ted asked. "Yeah, no," Albert frowned. A few of the men laughed and snickered. Someone even called the news reporter an idiot, but Albert remained both respectful. Isaac Ellis' camera zoomed in, captured the frown on film, then panned the wharf and the group of homeless men, which seemed to have grown since the interview began and then settled back on Ted Myers. "It's the eve of Christmas Eve," Ted Myers stated matter-of-factly into the camera. “But out here, on the wharf,” he stepped aside so Isaac Ellis’ camera could shoot the wharf behind him. “As, you can see,” Ted continued. “There’s no evidence of the Christmas holiday, no tree, no stockings, no lights…” “Hey, someone must’ve stole ‘em!” a heckler called out. “Albert, it’s Christmas. What does that mean, if anything, to you? Out here all alone at Christmas,” Ted gently pulled Albert closer. "Yeah, um, we know, I know it’s Christmas," Albert struggled with his words. "I know that, I mean, it's not like we're isolated from the world. We got eyes, we can see." Isaac Ellis’ camera zoomed in on Albert and tried to capture the emotional tension on film. "What about family?” Ted asked. “Do you have families? Are they aware of your situation? That you’re living out on the wharf?" Ted’s voice was softer now, more compassionate and engaging. The direction of the interview changed, as the camera stayed focused on Albert.. Albert took a step back, a little closer to the fire and to his comrades, the group of huddled men, who up until then had only been a backdrop. “This is my family,” Albert replied. "Oh, you mean your street family?" Ted wanted to know. "Yeah," Albert's voice was faint now, as the camera zoomed in for another close-up. "And you're out here, all alone during the holiday season?" Ted repeated his original question, for emphasis. "This is Sam," Albert reached over and patted Sam on the shoulder and the camera zoomed in on Sam, who bashfully looked down at his feet. The camera followed his downward gaze, to a pair of feet covered with trash bags, instead of shoes. Then the camera panned all the men's feet and paused where there was one foot missing, then back up to their faces into a group shot. "And your biological families?" Ted delved deeper. "Um," Albert’s voice choked up, as he fought back tears and the camera stayed on him. "Um, I don't know. I want to, I would like to go home," he finally murmured. "What's your family like?" Ted Myers found a sticking point and stuck with it. This was the emotional interview that he wanted, this was the selling point. As a reporter, he needed to report the human side of the story. He dove in, now and his voice boomed: "Albert, do you have a wife and kids? And we are they?" Albert nodded and Ted knew he had the story he wanted. The camera stayed on them and Ted’s face filled with concern. “So, you do have a wife and kids. How are they handling the holidays without a father?” he asked. “Two kids and I know their mother's doing the best she can," Albert forced a small smile at the good thought. "I bet they miss you, on this special night," Ted shoved the microphone under Albert’s chin, to make sure that his viewers would hear Albert’s words. "I'd like to think that they're better off without me," Albert whispered, and a tear rolled down his cheek. "Would you like to tell them Merry Christmas?" “Yeah," Albert sniffled. "I would.” "Then go ahead, look right into that camera and tell them," Ted Myers stepped out of the camera's view and left Albert standing alone, staring shyly into Isaac’s camera. “Merry Christmas,.” Albert murmured softly. “I have one last question for you,” Ted took a dramatic pause. “What is the one thing that you could say, that would prevent others from ending up out here, homeless on the waterfront?" Isaac’s camera took in a panoramic view of the wharf and its waterfront, the homeless men and the fire. The ashes flew upwards into a hopeful spiral. Just then Isaac noticed an American flag off to his left in the distance and he zoomed in on it, he made a mental note of just how good he was and smiled. Ted Myer’s noticed the flag too. “What can we,” Ted looked directly into the camera. “As Americans do as a whole, to prevent citizens from entering a maze that leads to this dead-end? Is homelessness a sickness? If it is, what’s its cure?" “It shouldn’t be,” Albert replied, almost on cue. His voice was harder now. "It shouldn't be like this. We shouldn't be out here like this. It’s not that we don't fit; it's more that we’ve been allowed to fall through. We’re not second class citizens, just citizens who need a second chance. Hell, I'm a veteran of the United States Army and that ought to count for something. And look at Floyd," Albert pointed to the one legged man and the camera panned down to show his missing leg. “Floyd lost his leg fighting for this country. We shouldn't be out here at night, especially not during the holidays!" Albert shook his head and the anger that had sapped his energy, once again turned to sorrow. "Don't you take any responsibility for the situation that you now find yourself in?" Ted was once again the impassioned news reporter. "Obviously, you once had a place to call home. Don't you think that man controls his own fate, and that your own actions and decisions led you here to the wharf?" "Naw,” Albert sighed. “I don't see it that way, not at all." Albert paused, then looked thoughtfully about the wharf, as if it were a wonderful place. "To me, this isn’t a wharf, this is a war zone. We're at war, all of us, you and him too," he eyed Isaac the camera man. "We're living in a country full of the Haves versus the Have-nots!" His voice was stronger now, as he gained strength from his companions. "But I know that even though we might be losing the battle, but we haven't lost the fight,” he sniffled and bravely held back tears. “Just because we're homeless, doesn’t mean that guys like us are expendable! Me and Sam and Floyd and guys like us, we're the casualties! We're the Prisoners Of War/ We're the guys who are missing in action and America has to come back for us! Instead of spending millions of dollars over there, maybe America will start spending some money right here," Albert cast a glance around the wharf, it was quieter now, or so it seemed. "Well," Ted Myers glanced at a slip of paper. “That's very insightful. That takes us right to the question of politics, did you vote and do you think the right man will be elected into office?" "Does it matter?" Albert’s voice cracked. "Look at us! The way we're dressed! We don't have clothes, so we can't get jobs. We don't have street addresses, so we can't vote! It's a viscous circle, it doesn’t matter who’s elected!"’ "But shouldn't it?" Ted Myers asked and his interest seemed genuine. "Geez man,” Albert threw his hands up.. “It shouldn't be a political campaign! We’re human beings! We’re Americans. It’s what was meant when the fathers of this country wrote, ‘We find these truths to be self evident’. What more evidence do you need? None of us should be out here in the cold, freezing our asses off?" "Well, that's a good point, but..." “None of us was born homeless," Albert pulled Ted Myers’ microphone to his chest and held it there. "No child dreams about growing up and being homeless. Look around you, aren't we your brothers, your fathers and your sons?" With a casualness that was deceptive, Ted Myers regained control of his microphone and it appeared that there was more to be said, but Albert had now turned and walked away. Isaac Ellis' camera followed Albert, until he was engulfed by the wharf’s darkness. "Aw, go on and get that camera out of here!" someone said to Ted, and there was a sense of hostility attached to the words. The camera panned each homeless face as the fire died down and the men cupped their hands to their mouths and blew their warm breath onto their freezing fingers. If there were tears flowing down their cheeks, it was not the result of self-pity, but instead from the chill of the wind. Albert had spoken honestly for all of them and they were proud. "Ted," Isaac said softly, as he clicked the camera off, but smartly left the camera's light on. “We’re out of film." Ted Myers stood motionless for a moment and then walked to the van, retrieved the bag of doughnuts and brought it over to the men. Then he walked into the darkness and found Albert by a ragged tarp and handed him his business card. “Call me,” Ted Myers said softly and left. "Got any change?" Albert asked.

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The Maze Colin Campbell www.colincampbell.org	#4 of 4 Runner-up
1053 words
Another gust helped the cold morning rain find it's way past the protection of the new woolen cloak. Jerome pulled it tighter around his shoulders. He tried to ignore the group of local girls watching and giggling in the shelter of a doorway, but they had seen him. One of the older girls pointed and called out loud against the wind, "Little Jerome starts his new job today. Better watch out he doesn't turn himself into a frog." The girls started making loud frog noises, some more realistically than others. Jerome waved over to the girls as pleasantly and with as much dignity as he could manage in the circumstances. But inside, he was harboring dark adolescent thoughts. 'They'll be singing a different tune when I get the powers. Oh yes, I'll have lots of women wanting to do things to me once I'm apprenticed to the Old Wizard.' He walked on, avoiding the puddles with a new spring in his step as he thought about what such things might be. So gripped was he by these thoughts that he barely noticed the many miles on the way to the cave of the Old Wizard, deep in the mountains where no one from the town ever went. It was late afternoon when Jerome reached the cave. There was no sign of the Old Wizard. He knew he dare not enter uninvited and he was way too fearful to call out. So he sat down on a long flat rock near the mouth of the cave and waited. All the time he was thinking of the wicked secrets that might be waiting for him in there. For what seemed a very long time he sat still all the while peering into the depths of the unlit cave entrance. Suddenly, he realized something had changed. He was no longer alone. The Old Wizard was sitting quietly on the flat rock right beside him. The young apprentice jumped quickly to his feet. "Sorry Sir," he said. "I didn't know you were there. How can you do that?" "Don't ask. You have much to learn first. When you're ready, you'll know without asking." The reply came softly and the Old Wizard seemed to be looking far away. " I was thinking how much you remind me of my first day in the craft. A day like this but long, long ago. The day when I did The Maze myself." "The Maze? "Yes, young lad. You must do The Maze. We all have to do The Maze before we can start." "Like a test?" "Oh yes, it will test you. "And then I can be your apprentice?" "Yes, just go in," said the Old Wizard gesturing towards the dark depths of the cave. "Then do what it takes to come back out again. You'll be alright. You're a smart young lad and you've got a good tongue in you're head ." Suddenly, Jerome found himself alone in the cave. It was time. The Old Wizard had gone and the darkness was closing around him. And then, nothing. Jerome waited and waited. It became colder and once again he was glad to have his woolen cloak. The light outside started to fade. Knowing he must do something, anything, he called out in a voice as clear and steady as he could manage. "I'm here for The Maze." At once, the ground opened and he was drifting down through the darkness in a gentle descent, controlled by an invisible hand. Reaching out, Jerome found he could touch the living rock as it opened to allow him to pass through. It was warm, like something living. And then, he was in a narrow tunnel and he could see for there was a faint greenish light all around and he was going forward and there was wind in his face. He soon came to a fork in the tunnel. One way sloped down and one sloped up. He took the branch that sloped up. Again and again the young lad came to forks in the tunnel and again and again he took the path that sloped up. And then he found he was back where he started at the very first fork. So he started taking the branches that sloped down. They led him far underground to where there was singing. At first the sound was faint and far ahead. Drawing closer, Jerome could make out that it was more of a tuneless and reverberating chant than a song. Finally the tunnel opened out into a cavern well provided with strange artifacts that clearly had no place in ordinary life. There was a strong red flickering light here and Jerome gasped when he saw the singers in their long black cloaks. He counted thirteen and there could be no doubt. This was a coven and they were all turning to move towards him. The closer they came, the more hideous they seemed. The young lad raised a hand to his mouth to conceal that he was struggling not to gag on account of the smell that surrounded them. Their cloaks hid much and Jerome reckoned they had much to hide. What was very clearly in view was a succession of grey wrinkled faces each one punctuated with more hairy warts than the one before. They now seemed to be forming a line in order of precedence eager to become acquainted with the new apprentice. Jerome used every ounce of self discipline he could muster to hide his disgust for he sensed that this was a time above all others in his young life when disobedience or disrespect would surely bring terrible danger. Without speaking, the Leader of the Coven looked Jerome straight in the eye as if looking for any challenge to her authority. Seeing none, she beckoned the young lad to follow her into a small sparsely furnished side chamber. Once in the privacy of the side chamber, she spoke loudly, her voice cackling as if at some timeless and tasteless joke. "There is one way out of The Maze. Only one and you must take it now, right now or stay here with us for eternity." "What must I do?" said Jerome. The dreadful old hag now let her cloak slip off revealing soiled red lingerie that strained to contain a hideously misshapen figure. "Well my dear," she said. "You can start by putting your tongue in my ear and we'll just take it from there."

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The Maze ruck9085@yahoo.com	Late Entry
1422 words
No matter how she walked it, she couldn’t find her way out of the damn thing. Not being a novice at puzzles, Lydia knew that there was always at least one way out of a maze, but she’d be dipped in shit if she could find the way out of this one.\The more complicated the maze, the more time was required to figure it out. Sadly, for this particular puzzle, time was at a premium. If she didn’t find her way out by sun-up it was game over, really over. Of course she could always cheat, could being the operative word. Before, she could always use her extensive arsenal of weapons, but it was forbidden this time. If she was caught cheating, as the maze master called it, she would lose the game- permanently. Not being particularly fond of the concept of permanence, Lydia decided to work her way out of this using only her mind and that presented a whole other set of problems. As a child, (she snickered at that thought) she’d been fairly adept at puzzles, more so than math for sure, but this maze was harder, more complex than anything she’d previously encountered in her brief life. Each turn brought her to another turn that led to a dead end and she was forced to backtrack. Raising her head, she looked at the stars shimmering like diamonds cast upon black velvet and sighed. “Probably should have paid a bit more attention to Mr. Kurtwood when he was trying to teach us astronomy.” Squinting, she tried to determine if the eastern sky, (was that the east?) was growing lighter. Was the blackness just a tad duller? “Boy, I hope not.” Closing her eyes she tried to sense the appropriate direction and felt a tiny stirring. Hmmm, maybe this right turn will lead out, she thought. Turning to the right, she took a tentative step and froze. “Who’s there?” Silence. Didn’t she just hear a small snicker? “No, guess not.” She began to move forward again and again was stopped by the sound. “All right, I know you’re there so you might as well come on out,” she said a bit loud. Again silence. “Well, this is ridiculous.” Taking a deep breath, she walked forward and the snicker erupted into a full blown giggle. “What, this isn’t the way out?” Nothing. “Alright, so I’ll go this way.” Turning, she headed in the opposite direction, waiting for the snicker again, but all was silent. “So what are you, my unofficial guide?” No answer. “Well, don’t talk then, just giggle so I’ll know if I’m going in the right direction.” No giggle. At the junction, she turned left. Several steps later she hit another dead end. Giggles erupted in the darkness and Lydia frowned. “Cut that out. What kind of game are you playing?” she demanded angrily. The laughter subsided. Lydia turned on her heels and retraced her steps. Back at the beginning, she stopped briefly and looked up. Yes, the sky to the east was definitely beginning to lighten. “Ooooh, this is not good,” she said. Hurrying, she crossed the small square to the path on the right. Almost running now, she raced to a junction as peals of laughter followed her. The faster she ran, the louder the giggles. Lydia covered her ears with her hands to block it out, and in so doing was forced to release her skirt that immediately wrapped around her legs causing her to trip Stumbling, she hit the wall and groaned; another dead end? She looked to the left and was dismayed to see a solid wall of hedges. Was that actually a tear she felt stinging her eyes, or just memories of past disappointments? Angrily, she brushed at her cheek, amazed as always at the cold dry feeling of her skin. Being dead’s not so bad, really, she thought. There really were worse things. Yeah, like being caught in this maze when the sun rose. Turning her head to the left, she was relieved to see the way was clear. Hurrying, she sped down the path as laughter assaulted her on every side. “I’m not going the wrong way,” she shouted. “I’m going the right way, and you know it.” Abruptly the laughter stopped. The silence was complete, and it was more un-nerving than the giggles had been. Lydia pulled up short. Was she going the right way? Had the laughter really been to guide her or to thwart her? What if she was going the wrong way? If she didn’t make a decision soon it would all be moot. Shrugging her shoulders, she hurried on. A left, a right, a right, a left, on and on she ran, ever mindful of the graying of the eastern sky, accompanied only by the sound of her footfalls. She ran for hours it seemed, making lefts and rights and never once hitting a dead end, but never reaching the end of the maze either. Time was her enemy now, the sky grew lighter with every turn and had her heart actually worked, she knew it would be thudding painfully, rapidly in her narrow chest She took a brief moment to wonder at her speed. She was all but flying through the maze now, her footfalls echoing a staccato beat on the packed clay beneath her feet; would that she could have run this fast back then. As she ran, she let her mind wander to that evening. She and Emily should have known better than to sneak out of the house, but the thought of such rebellion pulled on them like a magnet, and bolstered by each other’s courage, they climbed out the window of Emily’s second floor bedroom and shimmied down the drainpipe to the ground below. Sprinting, fighting nervous giggles, they reached the back gate and slipped through unnoticed by Emily’s parents or worse, by the neighbor’s watchdog. Alas, their freedom was short-lived for at the back of the alley, where it met the back wall of the cemetery, the girls met their fate. He moved quickly, silently and before either girl could react, had them both by the throat, his grip viselike, his eyes boring into theirs holding them enthralled. Neither girl had believed in monsters nor vampires before this night, and the realization that they should came too late. The end of her life was something that Lydia would never forget, if she lived or un-lived to be a hundred. A quick searing pain, followed by a feeling of floating, then coldness and that was it. When she awakened, it was days later and she was alone in the dark. Tentatively she reached out, and her hand hit something solid less than a foot n front of her. Again to the left and then to the right, her questing hands struck a solid surface, and then she realized she was laying down, flat on her back. Panic set in, her breath came ragged and swift, her small chest heaving. Her mind screamed out that she’d been buried alive and the silent scream became an earsplitting screech as she hammered at the top of her prison. And then miraculously, she was free, and he stood there before her, his eyes boring deeply into her own. And he taught her. Taught her to hunt, to feed, to use the wondrous powers she’d been given. And use them she did, too often and far too well and that is what brought her to the maze. As punishment for challenging the master, she was sentenced to the maze, and forbidden to use her powers to find her way out. If she made it out before sundown, she would be pardoned, if not… Raising her eyes, she grimaced; the sky was now a deep gray, the blackness fading. And on she ran, left, left, right, left. Would this waking nightmare never end? And then suddenly there it was; the entrance to maze. Lydia pulled up short. Should she simply walk out of the maze, her head held high, smiling? Or should she be more humble; show her master that she had learned her lesson? Deciding on the latter, Lydia clasped her hands in front of her and stepped out of the darkness of the maze, and for the first time in over eighty years, felt the warmth of the sun on her face, and before the agony of its burn she felt the glory of being alive one more time.

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"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club