An example of the kind of nonsense creative writing I would do in high school, roughly 2001. Reading it is inadvisable, other than perhaps as evidence that a kid who writes this kind of stuff could eventually become a well-adjusted adult with enough time.
Ooh! Look who it is! Read my story, do you? Don’t be denying it, I have proof! The silent type, eh? I think we can soon remedy that. I’ve written a little story; but not in first person—no, that won’t do at all. Third person is way too overdone. So I will take the path not often traveled: second person.
You stand in the dark; a wet, cold dark. A liquid is pouring down from above, so you assume it is rain. But how do you know? You’d like to just believe its rain, for that is easier. Where are you? Not knowing angers you. So you look around. Of course.
Being dark, you can’t see very much. The liquid is making puddles everywhere, splashing and dripping to no end. To your sides are infernal cliffs. What if you wanted to go that way? Of course you don’t, but you dislike any limitation on your freedom. You appear to be on a path—where the path comes from is not known to you, but wherever it is, you don’t like it. A place of evil. But how much less evil is on the path ahead? Foolish to think of, for you’re not going back, so it doesn’t matter.
As you step forwards, you notice your shoes are filled with water. You didn’t put water in your shoes! What an outrage! Obviously someone must have done it to spite you. Fool.
You look up to see what appears to be a palace. Well, not as much of a palace, but more like a run-down shack. There must have been a dirty trick or you would have noticed that in the first place. At this time, you feel a wet breeze on your cheek. Because it is not warm, you assume it is cold. Cold.
You approach the shack, your mouth turns in disgust. You hate this shack, with its fractured windows and black shingles spread around the muddy ground. The grass is unkempt, the shutters unhinged, and whatever paint there once was has worn away. The leaves of last fall still litter the yard, along with the leaves of many past falls, maybe since the beginning of time—but probably not.
You are angered by this shack. It’s run-down and dirty and destroys the beauty of the neighborhood, along with the mud and rain and dark. You should give the owner a piece of your mind. Common courtesy dictates that one cleans up before guests arrive—you are a guest, obviously one of more importance than this shack deserves. You always tidy up before having visitors, though you cannot recall having any. Has nobody ever visited you?! How insulting!
As you knock on the door—or maybe before—someone opens it. The man is ugly and dirty and run-down. Just like something else you’d seen recently, but you can’t remember what. Why is this man smiling? How dare he smile at you, with his crooked yellow teeth. Fools. Him and all his friends—and his dog.
“I could kiss you,” he mutters, and you slap him. He doesn’t notice, but neither do you. As you step inside, he hisses, “Come in, come in.” How dare he tell you what to do? Did he not see you were doing that already? Every person you’ve met tonight has been a fool—and still is.
It seems it is no longer raining. But you are no fool. It is still raining, but the rainy air is being kept out by the roof. Or was the rainless air being kept in by the ceiling? You’re infuriated by not knowing. You fight the urge to kill the man, though you don’t know why.
The man starts to make his way downstairs. But he does not run, walk or crawl like a normal person, but skips. He prances like a fool; how cross he makes you. You scowl and look around, deciding that there is no other course of action but to follow the fool.
So you follow the fool. You take the stairs, but you are not so sure if they are ‘down’ stairs; you are not going down nor up, nor any of the directions you are familiar with. After a while that is of considerable length, you are downstairs. Well, you aren’t sure if it really is down, but that is what the fool keeps muttering, “Now we’re downstairs.” On second thought, because the fool thinks it’s downstairs, you decide it’s upstairs; how dare he prance like that. You decide to look around, because you think that you will discover more with your eyes than with your ears, nose and tongue.
The upstairs of the fool’s one-story shack is a bad place. You don’t know why, but it doesn’t matter. Chemicals are boiling. Animals are in cages. Fires are burning. The fool is prancing. All things you disapprove of. If the fool tries to boil you or cage you or burn you or prance you, then you will have to kill him. He makes you so angry!
“Sit here, my pretty,” he mutters. You assume it was him because it wasn’t you, nor was it the chemicals or animals or the fires. How dare he call you that? You are in no way his, though you sometimes think of yourself as pretty. You kill him; twice. That solves the problem.
He continues to babble on about how you should sit there, where he gestures, so you just do so you don’t have to hear his voice. It’s so loud and flowery and quiet and dark in here. He’s whispering that it will all be over soon, which is fine by you, since you never even gave it permission to start!
Sitting here, you get an odd feeling. At least it was not an even feeling, nor was it a prime number. In any case, the man started pouring chemicals and chanting, flicking switches—and prancing!!!
If you weren’t busy sitting, you would curse at him, though that would be much less than he deserved. You must knock some sense into this fool. You are both inraged and outraged. He begins spewing gibberish—he’s lost it!—and you begin shouting back in rage. He must be quiet! What experiment is he talking about? If he tries an experiment on you, then you’ll kill him again! Cross doesn’t begin to describe it!
You wake up in a funny little room. How did you get here? There’s white everywhere— Why? The man is there, talking to someone. “Yes, this subject is clearly mad.” The prancing fool was no longer prancing, but wearing a white coat, and he had a clipboard. You wish you had a clipboard. What does he mean you are mad? You shout that you aren’t mad anymore, that you forgive him, but he slaps you. You both notice, but only you care. The man is the mad one, it seems. He’s mad at you.
“How dare you speak to me like that?” he demands. He says you’re dotty and you deserve to be locked up here. Where is ‘here’? You try to put your hands over your ears, but something’s holding them together. If the wall wasn’t soft, you would have been knocked unconscious. It’s not you who’s mad, it’s the prancing fool.