The following is from the first chapter in one of the stories I am working on.
The Department of Fate was housed in the tallest, and darkest, office building in town. No other building, nearby or otherwise, matched it's height, width, or weight, actual or symbolic. And though physically impossible, no matter which of the nearby buildings one might have been in, it seemed one was always seemed to find themselves in the shadow of the granite behemoth. It was as if the lustreless black stone sucked in every ray of light that was fortunate to get past the clouds that always seemed to linger around the city. And the sinisterness of the facade was compounded by the fact that the only windows to be found on the 150 stories were on the one-hundred-and fiftieth. This is what was assumed to be the oppulent residence of the director of Fate herself, the deathless, blind old crone that decided, with exacting detail, what was in store for each and every citizen, from the day they were thrust into this world, till they day they were plucked away.
But even though the Department was central to every citizen's lives and thoughts, no one outside the department had ever seen the inside of the edifice. That's becasue all external relations were handled at numerous branch offices about the city and surrounding municipalities. And since Fate was not one to waste any more money than it had to, these offices were usually within very old buildings that evidently received very little maintenance. It seemed the only visually clean surface to be found on the buildings were on the door handles themselves, worn smooth by the hands of centuries of penitents, who visited the offices to meet with their assigned caseworkers, pleading for more favorable treatment by the Department.
They say hope springs eternal. Well it must. Because though it seemed that those responsible for the layout and lighting of the office interiors had done everything in their power to create a depressing environment, every office was always filled to the gills. And it couldn't be said which looked more pathetic: the fields of desks where the tired and overworked caseworkers unceasingly listened to their clients' latest sob stories, or the crowded waiting areas where citizens of all types silently practiced their pitches until their names were called.
Wilem Porter sat in one of these waiting areas. He'd sat there more times than he could remember, but had never gotten used to the place. It was just as repulsive now as it was when he had first visited the place as a young teen. Back then he'd only stop by a few times a year. But over the years, his visits had become more frequent. His present visit was the third this month. There were even a few times in recent months that he had unexpectedly just found himself in the waiting room without remembering how he had ever gotten there.
