A snip of my work in progress: The Interview

“Unfortunately, there is no mistake,” said Marnie, and closed the file.


They stood in the narrow hallway outside the door with the number “67” crookedly nailed in place. Marnie’s feet were pointed in an awkward “V,” her toes throbbing in the triangle tip of her stilettos. She gripped the door knob and tugged until the warped wood escaped its frame with a pop.


“So, I’m dead. And in hell,” said Max. He was taller than Marnie by a head, taller still if he stood straight.


The room was tiled, floor to ceiling and cradled a chill. A drain was in the middle of the floor, and twisted pipes hung overhead, rusted and tugging at the drooping tiles. Marnie scooted past Max, dragging a yellow chair from the hallway and deposited it directly over the drain. Tight stitches at its edges had begun to unravel, revealing the old wood beneath. Flimsy and small, it was dwarfed by the darkness of the room. Its clawed arm rests were worn and discolored.


“Fill this out and place it directly beneath your seat,” said Marnie. The file in her hand was thick. Many of the pages yellowed and dog eared, but she balanced a single sheet on the chair’s arm rest. She gestured for Max to take a seat and he obeyed, swiping up the sheet of paper before he made contact.





“Is that blood,” he said, eyeing Marnie’s collar. He leaned forward without leaving the chair, and it rocked on its two front feet.