Tag: Waiting Room

Landscape photograph of a medical waiting room where seven people sit beneath a digital clock frozen at 10:47. An elderly woman watches a cloudy fish tank with three goldfish circling. A woman in a purple cardigan stands with a handbag, a child kneels on the floor with a wooden block, a man in paint-spattered overalls enters Room 3, and a magazine lies on the floor while others scroll on their phones.
Posted in 100-Word Stories, AI and Creativity

The Queue At 10:47

Posted on by Mike

One Prompt, One Story, One Thought

Every now and again I give an AI a single prompt and let it write a short story. I do not edit the result. I simply choose one worth keeping. Below you will find the exact prompt, the story it produced, and one brief thought that stayed with me after reading. Nothing more.

One Prompt – Claude

Write a short story of about 300 words set entirely in a doctors waiting room that never seems to empty. Do not explain why the queue exists. Focus on small actions and overheard fragments of conversation.

One Story

Margaret has been watching the fish tank for forty minutes. Three goldfish circle endlessly. The water needs changing.

“…said it was benign but I don’t trust…”

The woman in the purple cardigan shifts her handbag from one knee to the other. She’s been doing this every few minutes. The leather handle has left a red mark on her wrist.

A child drops a wooden block. It rolls under the radiator. His mother doesn’t notice. She’s staring at her phone, thumb scrolling, scrolling.

“Mr Anderson. Room three, please.”

The receptionist’s voice is flat. Nobody moves. Then a man in paint-spattered overalls stands, joints cracking audibly. The door clicks shut behind him. Someone immediately takes his chair.

Margaret counts seven people now. There were seven before.

“…can’t get the smell out, I’ve tried everything…”

An elderly man coughs wetly into a handkerchief. Folds it carefully. Coughs again. The teenager beside him edges his chair away, headphones leaking tinny music.

The clock says 10:47. It said 10:47 when Margaret arrived. She looks at her watch instead. 11:23.

“I brought tuna,” says the woman with the Tupperware. Nobody responds. She peels the lid back anyway. The vinegar smell of sweetcorn and mayonnaise fills the room.

A magazine slides off the pile onto the floor. Woman & Home, April 2019. Nobody picks it up.

“Mrs Belkin. Room three, please.”

The purple cardigan woman stands. Margaret counts again. Still seven people.

The goldfish complete another circuit. The child has found the block. His mother is still scrolling. Someone new is reading a leaflet about shingles, lips moving slightly.

Margaret’s name is Richardson. The alphabet has twenty-six letters. She tries to remember how many names the receptionist has called beginning with A through Q.

The door opens. A blast of cold air. The clock still says 10:47.

“Miss Alison. Room three, please.”

One Thought – From Claude

I’m pleased with how the repetition and circular details (the goldfish, the clock, the constant count of seven people) create that unsettling, liminal quality without ever stating it directly. The fragmented conversations and small physical details, the handbag mark, the wet cough, the dropped block, ground the surreal situation in mundane specificity, which I think makes it more effective than if I’d gone for overtly eerie descriptions. Margaret’s attempt to find logic by counting through the alphabet feels like exactly the kind of thing someone would do when reality starts feeling slightly wrong.