Here’s the September 8 2015 writing prompt from Writer’s Digest:

Labyrinth

You wake up one morning and find that you aren’t in your bed; you aren’t even in your room. You’re in the middle of a giant maze. A sign is hanging from the ivy: “You have one hour. Don’t touch the walls.” Finish the scene.

And my result below. It ends abruptly because I found myself lost, as if in a maze, ho ho. Really, I just couldn’t think of a good way to have the story progress. I may come back to this at some point but probably not.

Prompt 9:

The first thing I notice when I wake up is I’m not in my bed. I don’t sleepwalk so this is a little odd. I examine my surroundings and the reason for not being in my bed becomes clear: I am also not in my bedroom.

I am, rather, in a very large, dimly-lit hallway. It disappears into shadows in two directions. The walls also disappear up into darkness. This is a hallway designed for a hill giant.

I approach the nearest wall and see a sign affixed to it. The sign has the following printed on it in crisp lettering that reminds me of the invitations Apple sends out for its media events:

You have one hour
Don’t touch any walls

I look down the hallway in both directions. I hear nothing, see no movement within the dark reaches. I want to touch the walls. Yes, very badly, the same impulse I get when spying a “Wet paint” sign. I resist touching the wall. For now.

I reach into my pocket for my phone in order to check the map app and get a fix on my position. This leads me to further realize that I don’t have my phone with me because I am not wearing any pants. Of course not, I don’t sleep in my pants. I sleep in my birthday suit.

I am standing in this strange place naked. The boys shrivel up a little when this hits me. My watch is also missing or presumably sitting on my nightstand, wherever that might be, so I have no way to track the time. I figure if that one hour started when I looked at the sign I probably have about 58 minutes left. But it could be two minutes. It could be minus ten minutes. I have no way to know.

Annoying. I’ve never liked puzzle games.

I choose to walk left. I don’t know if it’s actually left but I declare it so. I’ve always been a lefty.

The walls are unadorned, sort of an eggshell white, though it’s just dark enough to not know for certain. The floor is smooth and cool. At first I think it’s tile but when I stop to examine it more closely, I can see it is actually polished stone.

Good thing I’m allowed to touch the floor. This could be very tricky otherwise.

I walk on for about ten minutes. My sense of time isn’t great. I’m not one of those people with a flawless internal alarm clock, but it’s not bad, either. It feels like ten minutes. I stop and look around.

Nothing has changed. I stifle a yawn.

This is not a great puzzle.

I continue on, hoping for something, even something bad, just to liven things up.

Well, maybe not something bad. But something.

As if my wish has worked, I find myself approaching an intersection. It is T-shaped, so I can go left or right.

You know what happens next.

And it’s logical, too. If this is a maze I should keep turning in the same direction. It’s one of those maze rules I remember hearing about.  Or maybe I saw it in a movie that had the Minotaur in it. Clash of the Titans? That one mashed together most of Greek mythology, so it seems like a good bet.

Everyone who went into the maze–the labyrinth, as I recall–ended up getting eaten by the Minotaur. It wasn’t until the hero went in with a piece of string that the Minotaur was defeated. Not by the string, of course–that was used by the hero to find his way out. He probably used a sword or crossbow or something else pointy and sharp to slay the giant half-man/half-bull.

I have no sword, crossbow nor something else pointy and sharp, but I’m also not overly concerned about running into a Minotaur.

The left hallway yields nothing new or different, just the same possibly eggshell white walls, the same polished stone floor, the same everything. I walk on for another ten minutes and come to a stop. I look behind me. I see nothing.

I listen. I hear nothing.

I hold my left hand out and take a step toward the wall, the one to my left, of course. I twiddle my fingers just shy of its surface. I press the fingertips firmly against it.

And am back where I started, the sign on the wall silently mocking me.

This is stupid, I think. I sit down, cross my legs and pull a small ball of lint from my navel, to better gaze into it.

“This is stupid,” I say aloud, hoping that who or whatever has created this would know in no uncertain terms what I thought. I feel elaboration might be needed so continue.

“This maze is stupid. It is dull and uninteresting. The threat is too vague to be menacing, if that’s your intent.”

No reply comes in response to my scathing criticism. The maze creator is either unavailable or indifferent.

I start off again, once more to the left, but this time I promise myself to walk for at least an hour and no touching the walls. In one hour I can cover around six kilometers. Who could afford to build a maze that big? Not many people, I figure, so I hope to be released from this interminable experience before the full sixty minutes elapses.

[to be continued?]