The Waiting Room - By Olivia Montzinger

Written By: Olivia Montzinger

Category: Short story.

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

Olivia Montzinger presents a captivating short story titled "The Waiting Room" as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This annual event celebrates literary creativity across the globe, and Olivia's contribution is a noteworthy exploration of human emotions and existential reflections. The narrative unfolds within the confines of a diner, weaving an intriguing tapestry of relationships and self-discovery.

About the Work

"The Waiting Room" is a masterful blend of suspense and introspection. Montzinger's narrative style intricately captures the tension between characters, painting vivid imagery of a diner scene that resonates with deeper philosophical undertones. The work delves into themes of identity, memory, and the metaphysical, employing rich symbolism and a hauntingly beautiful atmosphere.

The waiting room

Original Submission by Olivia Montzinger

The waiting room:

By Olivia Montzinger

People say that ginger-haired women shouldn't wear red dresses but I disagree. She looks stunnin’, sittin’ there from across the bar. Her ginger hair parted to the side, her red dress dipping into a deep v at her alabaster collarbone. It must be past midnight but the diner is still open. It seems to me that we are always open. This street corner, these bay windows, they are all I know. I try to picture life outside the diner but I can’t.

When I do, all I see are brief flashes of green, and then my hands smell of citrus.

Shovel. Plough. Growth.

And then there are the whispers. Words that dance in my mind without explanation.

I try to pretend that they do not exist. There is another man sitting in the diner, opposite the Scarlet woman and her man. He sips his drink menacingly, his eyes boring into the Lady in Red:

“Ginger-haired women shouldn’t wear scarlet dresses.” He spits the phrase out like he’s throwing shards of glass. His words seem like code for something else.

Wood. Orchard. Roots.

Do the people in this diner know each other?

Sunlight. Sunshine. Warmth.

The ginger woman in question replied:

“And little boys shouldn’t play with fire, lest they get their fingers burned.” She said the words like she was sending a message. Something strange and unspeakable was happening between these customers. Tension. Just tangible, was bubbling beneath the surface.

Laughter. Orange blossoms. Pink cheeks.

The lady in Red lights a cigarette with a chic, maroon lighter and hands it to the man next to her. He takes a deep drag, and for the first time I notice the lines of verse scrawled across both his hands in black, ball point pen. He must be a poet. Silence. Their occasional sips make the only sound in the room, as I stand there, wringing my hands.

Stardust. Sandman. Peace.

The lady in Red and the lonely man stare at each other - shooting bullets into each other’s souls. The lonely man sets his root beer down on the bar. Thud. Everyone pretends that we don’t see his hand trembling.

Citrus. Tangerines. Clementine.

What time does the diner close again?

What is the time?

Steam. Earth. Soil.

“Dammit Jessica, I can't do this any more. I can’t go nowhere without seeing you with somebody else.”

He picks up his root beer and downs what's left of it. As if that simple action could distract us from his vulnerable statement. The poet extinguishes his cigarette in the ash tray and directs his grey eyes to the lonely man.

“Does her infidelity make her less of a person sir?”

“Yes, it makes her irrelevant ."

“So you’re saying that by her remaining unfaithful to you, she strips you of your humanity - sir?”

“You could say that yes.”

“So is cheating inhumane to you sir?”

“Only if a woman does it.”

Pause.

Jessica jumps from her seat and walks towards the window. Her face is as red as her dress. There is murder in her eyes.

“SHUT UP. BOTH OF YOU SHUT UP.” She lights another cigarette, this time for herself, and paces around the diner floor. Click.clack.click.clack.

The door. The diner door. I might not know what time my shift ends but I can leave.

Leave, and abandon these godless people to the worst fate - themselves. I turn and try to make a run for the wooden door with the grey window. I never get there.

How long have I been making coffee exactly?

Something is bothering me, the scent of deja vu perfumes before my nose. Tantalising, but without a clear root. A bug is probing beneath my skin in a place I can’t quite reach.

Honeysuckle.Teabags.Kisses.

I feel like I’ve lived through this moment before.

Tire swing.Farm house.Wife.

The grey-eyed poet glances at Jessica and sighs deeply.

“Jessica, I suggest you sit down. You’re so very tiresome, letting your heels click like that on the linoleum.” She whips her head towards the poet. Her eyes are a circus of fury and her voice is lethally soft:

“You don't get to tell me what not to do.”

I’m not sure how pretty she is anymore.

“I’m so sick of people treating me like I’m anything but relevant. ”

“ Then be irrelevant my darling. Poetry often enters through the window of irrelevance."

“I am not a poet.”

“And I am not a window.”

And with that, she slips off her heel and stabs the stiletto tip into the diner’s large, wraparound window. Miniscule tributaries flow from the heel. All four of us watch as the window turns into a map of cracks. We wait for the ocean roar, and it comes.

Oh, how it comes.

But in the split-second between violence of Jesisca and the consequent destruction of the window, I become aware of something. The uneasy feeling that’s been bothering me all night suddenly reaches its climax. Something is not right here.

Only those who realize that they lie in the devil's snare can truly escape it…

The glass window shatters - the iridescent shards flying through the air like glass butterflies. I feel them float past me. I am unhurt. I close my eyes and let the harsh diner lighting be transformed into an incandescent glow that pools beneath my eyelids.

When the diner window shatters, then you will understand…

I fall first to my knees, then backwards onto my back. The gravity of my epiphany physically drags me downwards. In the background, Jessica screams abuse but I cannot hear it. The poet repeats the same unintelligible quote and rocks back and forth on the diner stool, but I cannot feel him.

Poetry often enters through the window of irrelevance.

The lonely man gets up and tries to leave through the diner door only to find it permanently locked.

I understand it all now.

That door can never be opened because the world outside the diner does not exist. We inhabit a third space. One between life and death. The others in this diner are like wind-up dolls. They only repeat what they’ve been taught to say. They are not people - at least not anymore. I was once a person though. In some past life time where the strings of time were grasped firmly between my fingertips. And the whispers, they are the remnants of my life before.

I see it now. The tangerine farm. The orchard heavy with the scent of orange blossom. My hands caked in soil, my face streaked with dirt. The honeysuckle which grew wild and untamed over the roof of my house. The tire swing where I pushed my son until he screamed with laughter.

Here comes the sandman…

His mother's voice as she sings him to sleep.

Go to sleep, my darling, go to sleep, good night…

…the way I used to kiss his rosy cheeks first and then hers.

I remember the life I used to live. The one that brought me unending joy. I know I was taken from them too soon. Some cruel twist of fate ripped my hand away from theirs.

I am dead. But they are alive.

At this, my sobs tear me open. I cry for the son I can no longer know and for the wife whose kisses I can no longer remember the taste of. I bring my fingers to my lips. Salt.

I damn the afterlife for leaving me stranded here - in the inbetween. As I lie there in the irrelevance, the words of e.e cummings comes and creeps beside me like a friend:

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

I open my eyes to the oblivion around me.

It is beautiful.

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

The Scarlet woman, the poet and the lonely man are no longer.

I am glad.

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;

My life is over but my memories are not.

which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

I am still relevant.

and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart:

I know now that I did not live in vain for I had people who loved me.

Suddenly I hear the unmistakable buzz of an intercom, and a sterile, synthetic voice calls my name:

“ Sir, will you please step through the door?”

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious event that brings together writers and poets from around the world. It serves as a platform for showcasing original works that push the boundaries of literary expression. Participants engage in a vibrant exchange of ideas, contributing to the ever-evolving landscape of global literature.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Olivia Montzinger for her insightful contribution, "The Waiting Room," to the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. Her story enriches the tapestry of this year's submissions, offering readers a profound exploration of human experience. We look forward to seeing more of Olivia's creative endeavors in the future.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.