The Write Site

Thirty feet high and filled with thorns, the hedges were more than a little imposing. Albi had heard tales of people trying to force their way between the branches as a shortcut, only to be consumed by the vegetation. The story tellers did not say it figuratively. There were no shortcuts anyway. There was probably no end either and, as Albi had been born in the Maze, there was no real beginning for him. Everything was, and always would be, the Maze. He wasn’t alone in that, thousands had been born between the hedges, a whole society kept apart by green walls. They were all looking for a way out, even if most knew, despite pretending otherwise, no such route actually existed. That didn’t mean Albi would stop looking though, for a way out or the centre. Life meant nothing other than the hopeless pursuit of finding something different.