Dystopian

The interview room is tasteful in a corporate way - nothing interesting enough to cause offence not matter what a person's preferences might be. It was the lego house for the identical workers in clean cut suits. After a few years here I'd be just like them - thinking inside the box and fearful of the open road. If it wasn't for the baby I'd take great pleasure in telling them to stick the job. Before I know it the standard "inoculations" are in my blood and the questioning begins...

General

I hear the soft clicks of my heels hitting the marble floor as I walk through the door the secretary told me. The walls were covered with grey and ivory wallpapers and motivational photography with silver frames. There were two small sections of offices across from each other and between them a small cubicle where a woman stood up to greet me. I felt a wave of anxiety hit me.
"Hi, welcome to the Biltmore Staffing Center. My name is Regina." She was a woman close to forties, short brown curly hair and somewhat overweight. She extended her hand toward me. "And you are?"
"My apologizes, I am Nicolette Summers. But you can call me, Nikki." I shook her hand as gracefully as I could.

By bahrnicy, September 6, 2014.
General

It's like a prison cell. A bare bulb hangs from the ceiling and the plastic chair underneath could have been stolen from an inner-city pre-school. I'm 6ft 2", what the heck do they expect me to do with that? I wonder if it's all some psychological test to see if I'm freaked out. I'm not. I'm a ten year MI5 veteran and I've seen things that would scare the piss out of any average Joe. Then a woman no taller than three feet enters the room and sits, apparently I am to stand for the interview. So I do. It's real easy for me to resort to my soldier training, I stand at ease and address her, "Yes, Mam, No Mam, etc.." Apparently I pass, she gets a dossier out of her case and begins the mission briefing.

By valentina10, October 4, 2014.
General

These jobs are always interview by panel, questions fired too quickly to answer with too much thought. They want to see what's under the veneer of your persona. And always the cameras are trained on your face, the computer giving analysis on your micro-expressions. Not this time apparently. A guy is swinging round and round in a big comfy swivel chair. I almost back out but he calls me by name. "Jonathan, come on in." With one more swing he's back around with a beer for each of us.

General

The room was every shade of grey, from washed out concrete to almost steel-blue. Every line was straight, every corner sharp, and the chairs looking as comfortable as a train station bench. Ernest moved forward, his mind on keeping his walking gait natural and his palms dry. Then his eyes flickered to the poppies on the desk, no doubt a noble gesture toward the fallen. The smallest contact and he'd break out in hives...

General

There was no back wall to the interview room, only tempered glass. Kyla was expecting it to appear blackened as it did from the outside, yet it was crystal clear with the most stunning panorama of the city, the trees below like the ones on her father's miniature train table. She tried to smile but a twitch was all she managed, as she focused on the six people at the table, blue and more shiny than a summertime lake. Each one of them looked her way just as friendly as a kindly relative, yet still her insides contracted like the air were an arctic flow.

General

The interview room smells of stale beer and the table is an off-cut of metal stacked on old tyres. At the window hangs a curtain that could once have been a deeply unfashionable frock, beige with insipid flowers of dirty pink. Hank beams. It's as far from corporate life as he can imagine...

General

The interview room was jammed: six grey haired old men opposite one barely beyond his teens. No-one passing would have guessed it was the youth calling all the shots. He had a business but his age made it tough to be taken seriously. He needed a compliant older man to be his stooge...