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Bet My Life | 1,137 words | Fantasy
(In response to this prompt.)
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The door looked like an ordinary office door. Stained wood, polished brass handle, a frosted-glass window with a decal announcing who worked beyond. But the words on the decal made it very clear where I was:
MANAGER
DEPARTMENT OF DEATH
I blinked and shook my head, but the decal remained the same. Bracing myself for what I might find, I pressed down on the handle and opened the door.
The office was surprisingly bright, considering who it belonged to. The lights were turned all the way up, and assisted by a tall lamp in one corner. The manager’s desk was long, made of a dark, polished wood, and scattered with a number of surprising conveniences. A row of books and binders ran along one end, held in place by a pair of abstract bookends. At the other end sat a printer and a tray filled with papers and file folders. A laptop lay in the middle of the desk, still closed, and, behind the desk, the manager was scrolling through something on her phone, the blue glow of its screen reflected in her glasses.
She acknowledged my entrance with a nod and motioned me forward, still scrolling as I sat down across from her.
“The dead don’t get second chances,” she said finally, then set aside her phone and crossed her arms on her desk. "What makes you think you deserve one?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said, simply.
“Everyone says that.”
( Read more... )
(In response to this prompt.)
----
The door looked like an ordinary office door. Stained wood, polished brass handle, a frosted-glass window with a decal announcing who worked beyond. But the words on the decal made it very clear where I was:
DEPARTMENT OF DEATH
I blinked and shook my head, but the decal remained the same. Bracing myself for what I might find, I pressed down on the handle and opened the door.
The office was surprisingly bright, considering who it belonged to. The lights were turned all the way up, and assisted by a tall lamp in one corner. The manager’s desk was long, made of a dark, polished wood, and scattered with a number of surprising conveniences. A row of books and binders ran along one end, held in place by a pair of abstract bookends. At the other end sat a printer and a tray filled with papers and file folders. A laptop lay in the middle of the desk, still closed, and, behind the desk, the manager was scrolling through something on her phone, the blue glow of its screen reflected in her glasses.
She acknowledged my entrance with a nod and motioned me forward, still scrolling as I sat down across from her.
“The dead don’t get second chances,” she said finally, then set aside her phone and crossed her arms on her desk. "What makes you think you deserve one?”
“I don’t belong here,” I said, simply.
“Everyone says that.”
( Read more... )
