It's cheating a bit, to use someone else's words in one of my own blog posts, I thought earlier. To redress the balance, here's an old piece of writing that I found on my laptop - I must've written this when I was about 15, probably. There are bits I love, bits I hate ("well hewn thighs"?!?), but here it is, in all of its erratic glory.
Nick's arriving tomorrow to stay in Oxford. God help us all.
Maze:
A lone figure stalked the labyrinth. Its long, twisting corridors stretched both ahead and behind of him without a break in the monotony, until they turned sharply away. They were broad but low, causing any tall explorers to bow their heads. Small globes, floating close to the ceiling, let off a dim glow, lighting up the passages for the wanderer as he strode along the stone floor. He was very short, not rising past the halfway mark of the low corridors. He was wearing just a pair of light, cotton shorts, tightened by a ragged rope belt. This left exposed his slightly chubby torso, and the surprisingly lean and well hewn thighs, ending in a pair of large, mangled feet. His arms were also well muscled, and extremely long, easily dragging on the ground if he let them rest. But instead they were in constant motion, tracing strange curves in the air with their wild flailing. His face was...portly, and drooped slightly, as if it had been let out to hang just a bit too long. A hint of stubble covered his rounded chin and bloated cheeks. His hair was black, greasy, and long, stretching down to his shoulders. He was also shouting at the top of his high pitched voice, screaming about some sort of 'black water'.
He continued in his peculiarly rolling gait along the never changing passage, arms almost blurring in the air. Behind him, the globes slowly dimmed, fading away to total darkness. Eventually, there was a break in the monotony. A small opening had appeared in smooth sandstone walls, the pitch black within revealing nothing of what lay beyond. The man stopped before it, and turned to gaze into it, his arms finally stopping, dropping to the ground. He fell silent, and the last echoes of his cries echoed away down the now darkened passageway. He peered cautiously into the darkness, and waved a hand through the opening. Instantly, the room beyond was lit up by another floating glow globe. It was extremely small, practically a cupboard, and all of its wall space, and much of its floor space, was covered by scraps of paper, attached with small pins. They were covered in untidy scribblings in an unfamiliar alphabet. Here and there was a well drawn charcoal sketch, sometimes of an attractive young person's face, both male and female, sometimes of a sleeping cat, some were more like blueprints, with curious angles and scrawled annotations. There was one of an old, torn teddy bear, and one of a bloody knife. Many were of strange beasts, and even more incomprehensible things. But most were of the same scene: an isolated lake in a wooded valley, surrounded by tall mountains. Although all were of the same scene, and none of the details had changed, each was subtly different. Some portrayed the lake as an unwelcoming bottomless pit, others as an idyllic watery paradise, and others still as a polluted sump. In some the mountains were gentle sentinels, or distant, indifferent giants, and in some jagged, threatening beasts who were about to consume the valley. But no two were the same. On the floor were many blank scraps of paper, in rough piles, and in a clear spot was a couple of sticks of charcoal and a stub of a pencil.
The man looked around, and frowned slightly. He peered at a couple of the nearest scribblings, and read them intently. Then he sat down in the lotus position, picked up a stick of charcoal and a blank scrap of paper from the nearest pile, and began to sketch rapidly, but with great control. Under his skilled hand, the image of a ruined stone tower soon began to take shape. He added a violent storm raging in the background, some ivy growing down the walls, and a dead tree protuding from the stony ground next to the tower. When he had finished, he lay the charcoal stick down gently, and peered critically at the drawing. He picked up the pencil, and scribbled a short note in the strange alphabet (similar to Hebrew) underneath the tower. He shouted out a word that sounded like "Kratoamain!" in his shrill voice, and burst out laughing. He laughed loudly for ages, tears rolling down his cheeks, but keeping his arms curiously still and folded across his chest. A couple of minutes later, he seemed to have recovered, and stood up shakily, looking around at the walls. He found a blank space near the top, and rummaged amongst the piles for a bent metal pin. Although it was far above his head height, his arms easily reached up and hammered the nail into the stone wall with his calloused thumb. He looked around at the walls again, and gave a short nod. One of the more hospitable lake scenes caught his eye, and he reached out with one slender finger to stroke it gently. His eyes welled up, and a lone tear trickled slowly through the grime and stubble.
He stood in silence for one long moment, then dropped his head, staring at the floor, and letting his arm fall back to his sides. He turned and crept quietly out of the room, and it fell dark behind him once again.
He began to stride along the corridor once again, and he was soon shouting and windmilling his limbs around frantically once again.
When the echoes of his ramblings had faded away, there was the hint of motion in the now darkened corridor outside the drawing room. Darker shapes in the gloom glided silently along the floor, turning through the small archway. The small globe still hovering just below the ceiling did not seem to notice the newcomers, or if it did, did not care enough about them to shed some light. The vague, serpentine figures halted once there were in there, and faded once more into the darkness. After a while though, they began making a series of loud clicks, first one starting, then the others clicking in harmony. It was uncertain how many of these there were-at least four though, and no more than ten. The vague shadows once again began their strange motion, gliding up the walls and over the scraps of parchment, continuing their sharp chorus. It rose in both volume and pitch, become rapid and frenzied. The individual sounds blurred together, rising into one singular scream of agony and discord. The rise in pitch did not stop, quickly rising past the human threshold, so that only the shadow of sound was left. There was one final burst of sound, sending the walls vibrating, before they fell silent.
They dropped down from the walls, and glided back out into the corridor, and in the direction the man had gone.
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