The Waiting Room Object Show Novels & Stories

By their sides were attendants who looked like personal assistants or maids. Danice, who had just stepped in, turned around, stepped back out, and checked the plate on the door. [Waiting Room.] It was indeed the waiting room. Danice: “…” So this was the Starlight Academy. Even their waiting room looked like a grand banquet with an all-you-can-eat buffet. Danice entered again and only then noticed the letters pasted on the chairs and the numbers displayed on the tables. She looked at her tag number: 28-D.

We're in an underground car park. I follow Zenith to an elevator, step in and stand beside Zenith at the back. John stands in front of us. I feel under-dressed, wearing a hoodie and jeans while they wear expensive suits. After a few minutes, the elevator stops and the doors open with a ding. I step into a large, clean, classy foyer. I follow Zenith to a large door. 'This is the waiting room.' he says. The waiting room has luxurious couches and recliners, designer coffee tables, fancy vases and fresh flowers. There is a long u-shaped desk centred in the room, and an ample water feature another wall.

Ding! Click! The deal was sealed. Hayley came back and swiped the card. The heavy metal door slowly creaked open. She stood steadily behind Liam, her eyes locked on the room ahead. The inside was pitch black, with not a single light on. The hallway light spilled in just enough to reveal a small steel-walled waiting room. In the center of the room stood a large pane of glass. The lighting wasn't strong enough to see through clearly, but it looked like there was a much bigger area beyond it.

He grips my elbow and holds me up until I am standing in front of the wheelchair and only releases me when I’m sitting. The nurse is holding the door open for us when Artemis turns me in the direction of the room. When we’re in the main area we follow the nurse down a couple of hallways until I see a few other people sitting in wheelchairs waiting in a line. We take the spot at the end and the nurse tells us the wait shouldn’t be too long and he’ll come back once we’re finished. He walks away and I let out a breath of relief. “I don’t like that guy.” Artemis grumbles.

The receptionist explains the program in “As you already know. Main stage in twenty minutes. Full use. No limits. Audience participation is required She’ll be displayed, fucked, and passed around for the first two hours. Then the real games begin.” She hands your Owner a keycard and nods to a side door. “Waiting room three. They will bring you in when it’s time.” Your Owner carries you down the hallway into a large waiting room. The space is filled with other disgusting people

*Harley’s POV My stare is fixed blankly on the white hospital floor as I sit with my feet above the seat. The sleeves of my shirt are pulled to my hand, my fingers keeping their hold on them tight. The place is quiet except for the sobs of Doris who has a handkerchief pressed to her nose as she sniffs hard. The waiting room has several anxious faces staring at the double doors. Each time they open and a nurse or doctor steps out, the people flick their gaze at the door, thinking that they bring news of their own.

Now he sat in a waiting room that probably cost more than most people's homes, Italian leather chairs, original artwork on the walls, a view of the city that made you feel like a god looking down on mortals. Kenneth adjusted his tie and waited. He was good at waiting. Patience, after all, was how you survived in his line of work. The receptionist, a severe-looking woman in her fifties with the kind of face that suggested she'd heard every lie ever told, glanced up from her computer. "Mr. Adair will see you now," she said crisply. "Conference Room B. Down the hall, third door on your right." Kenneth stood, smoothing down his jacket. "Thank you."

Mia's POV The waiting room is painted the color of old butter. Not quite yellow. Not quite cream. Something in between—a shade chosen by someone who thought it would be calming but instead just makes everything feel slightly nauseated. There are chairs along the walls. Hard plastic things with thin cushions that do nothing to hide how uncomfortable they are. There's a table in the corner with magazines that are six months out of date. There's a television mounted near the ceiling, playing the news on mute, the closed captions scrolling across the bottom in words that no one is reading.

We sat there in the institutional beige silence of the waiting room, eating crackers, the television mounted in the corner playing a home renovation show on mute with the captions running in a font that was slightly too small to read from this distance. The room had two other occupants — an older man doing a crossword with the focused energy of someone for whom the crossword was load-bearing, and a woman in scrubs who appeared to be on her break and was asleep sitting up with the practiced ease of someone who had learned to sleep anywhere. A clock on the wall moved its second hand in the particular way waiting room clocks moved, like even time was slowed down in here, made thicker by the spe

He went through the doors. I sat down in the nearest plastic chair. I stared at the ceiling. The waiting room had the specific quality of all waiting rooms, which was the quality of a place designed to contain people in a state of suspension, neither here nor there, caught between the thing that had happened and the thing that had not happened yet. Fluorescent lighting. The ambient noise of a building that was busy in other rooms. A television in the corner showing something with the volume low enough to be heard but not followed.