Prompt Writing - 29 May 2016

The office building seemed normal enough. You shrug off the feeling of dread as you enter the doors. There's no receptionist. Simply two doors. One is green, the other orange. Which do you take? Why are you there? What happens next?

"Good morning!"

The empty foyer responded with silence. Sheila checked the slightly crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

321 Baker St.

Yes, this was the place. Head cocked slightly, she looked around surreptitiously. Ahead, on the left of the un-occupied rotunda directly before her, an unmarked office door. Except for the neon green paint, this door would be unremarkable. Flanking the rotunda on the right hand side, a similar door painted neon orange stood implacably.

Nothing else. One unoccupied reception desk, and two doors. There was absolutely nothing to indicate what she would do next. Sheila shifted on her feet, the straps of her black mary-jane pumps digging uncomfortably into her insteps, as she recalled the odd phone call from the week before.

**********

The ringing of the landline last Friday evening was the first indication that something was amiss. Nobody called her on the house phone - they knew better. Everyone knew that the best way to reach the perpetual-motion dynamo that called herself Sheila was to send a text message to her mobile phone. That way, your communication could be triaged and slotted into the appropriate place on Sheila's jam-packed social schedule, for a response at (what Sheila deemed) the appropriate time.

But at 6:45 that Friday, the shrill rings roused Sheila from a post-dinner torpor, as she recovered from the large steak she had conquered only minutes earlier. Briefly considering letting it go to voicemail, she considered the event unusual enough to attend to immediately. She crossed the small living room she'd retreated to after dinner and glanced at the phone display before putting the handset to her ear. ID Unavailable.

"Hello." She never asked questions if she could help it.

"Hello Sheila, thanks for picking up. I've got some ... news."

"Yes." Silently, she reached for the memo pad that always sat next to the phone.

The voice on the line was cool, impersonal. The caller let an awkward pause build before breaking it with a wry chuckle.

"This is not something we can discuss over the phone. Meet me downtown on Monday morning. 321 Baker St - it's near the old court complex. Let's say 10 am. The lake is being drained, and all the fish are gasping for air."

"Who are you? Wait! "

It was too late, Sheila had already heard the click. Dazed and loose-jawed, she held the dead handset to her ear for some moments, before setting it aside and again reaching for the memo pad. Hastily she began scribbling:

321 Baker St.

10 am

SAID THE PHRASE!!!

Voice

There, she stopped. Was the caller male or female? She searched her memory in vain. Frustrated, she tore the leaf off the memo pad and then stared at it, mumbling.

"321 Baker Street. All the fish are gasping for air. All the fish are g - 321 Baker. 321 Baker Street."

**********

The weekend passed, each agonizing hour providing Sheila with 3600 seconds in which her thoughts were bombarded with the futile questions she especially hated, give or take the few she spent on eating or sleeping. On Monday she was fully awake by 4:30 in the morning, lying in bed thinking of fish. Too frazzled to even think about sitting for her usual morning meditation, she opted instead for a hot shower.

Thinking that she might be able to nap, she stretched back onto the bed, wrapped up in her fuzzy robe. Rather than falling back into sleep, she tossed fretfully instead, reading two pages of the book open on her Kindle before tossing it aside in favor of browsing Reddit on her mobile. She allowed herself to get distracted by internet commentary long enough for the sun to sneak up. Only when it was firmly established in the sky Sheila noticed that if she didn't hurry, she would be late. She quickly shimmied into her usual "interview/meeting client" outfit, and headed out the door.

**********

Now here she was, staring at the empty foyer with the two neon-painted doors. A tide of irritation rose in her chest, but before she could turn around to leave she remembered THE PHRASE. That's how she thought of it now, on Monday. After a weekend of vague fish-related unease and discomfort, she had unconsciously started to avoid the actual words. Maybe that subtle aversion to the marine was what prompted her action now.

Coming to an unseen decision, Sheila took a deep breath and strode behind the rotunda. Turning right, she hesitated for a moment with her hand on the handle of the orange door. She looked back at the street door as if making some final calculation. Unprepared when the door swung open in front of her without warning, Sheila gave a small shout as she stumbled forward into the waiting dark. The orange door slammed shut behind her, and the office foyer was silent once more.

**********