Heaven’s Desk Job

An imaginative composed by Bailey (Year 11 Advanced)

Heaven, contrary to popular belief, is not a place of celestial choirs, soaring angels, or golden gates. No, it is an office, and not a glamorous one, either. There are no sweeping marble floors or grand chandeliers. Instead, there are rows upon rows of dull, grey cubicles, each one occupied by a person whose task is to make life and death decisions. What is my job? I hear you ask. Well, my job is to make those life and death decisions, as is everyone else’s upon arrival. The job is simple enough to follow: we are given a file, we make a decision, and then click a button on the desk.

Green for yes and red for no. Easy, right?

That is what I thought when I first started, too. But let me tell you, it is not as easy as it seems.

Part of my job involves touring new recruits around the office, and today’s recruit is Daniel, or “Dan,” as he insists. He strolls in looking like that one popular kid at school we all despise (think about it, you know the one, blonde hair spiked high, a smug grin plastered on their face). The man practically oozes arrogance. He stands tall, his posture straight as a rod, eyes scanning the room with curiosity whilst simultaneously looking down at all of us. His nose? Well, it is pointed towards the skies above; he looks as though he can feel the weight of the world’s admiration on his shoulders.

“Is this it?” he sneers, his voice dripping with disdain as he takes in the sight of the cubicles. “Ah, I always wanted a desk job,” he says with a sense of mock admiration as he surveys the cubicles.

I have to force a smile. It is not the first time I have heard that line, and it certainly will not be the last. I can already feel the quiet tension rising between us, but I know better than to let it get under my skin.

“Yeah,” I say, leaning against the side of the nearest cubicle, “this is it. And trust me, it is more important than it looks.”

He chuckles. “Right. So what? I sit here and click a button all day?”

I nod, not missing the condescending tone in his voice. “Yes. You click ‘YES’ or ‘NO.’ You get to decide who lives and who dies.”

He throws his head back, laughing. “That is it?” He raises an eyebrow, his voice laced with an almost playful disbelief as he glances around. “Interesting, is this the big desk job in heaven then?”

“I am telling you, it is more than just clicking a button,” I say, trying to hold back my frustration. “Lives hang in the balance. Every decision has consequences.”

“Yeah, sure,” Dan mutters, clearly uninterested. “Look, I am just here to do my time and move up. I do not need some boring desk job to teach me about consequences.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Well, maybe it is time you learn the hard way.”

That seems to spark a glint in his eyes. Maybe he thinks I am joking. Maybe he thinks it is all just a game. But I am dead (pun intended) serious.

“Come with me,” I say, pushing myself off the cubicle wall. “I will show you something.”

He follows me down the rows of cubicles, still walking with the swagger of a man who thinks he is destined for greatness. His boots click on the polished floors with every step. It irritates me. The sound reminds me of the day I am promoted, when they hand me a clock as a gift. The ticking drives me mad, gnawing at me with every second that passes until I cannot stand it anymore. I throw it out. The thought of time, measured so relentlessly, makes my chest tighten. I can already feel that same anxious pulse coming back, just from the sound of his boots.

We step through a door, and the world around us immediately shifts. We are not in the office anymore. Instead, we stand in what we all jokingly refer to as “The White Room,” a blank, featureless void that stretches endlessly in every direction and transforms into whatever you require. Its walls, floors, and ceiling are lost in pure white. It is the sort of place where even the bravest among us feel a little unsettled. It is as though the room itself exists outside of time, a space where nothing can hide and where, for some reason, I always feel a little safer.

I stand there for a moment, letting the emptiness settle in, before turning to Dan, who looks as unimpressed as ever.

“Impressive, right?” I say, jokingly.

Dan does not even glance around, for he perceives there is nothing to look at. “Looks like a place for people who have lost their minds,” he mutters, sounding more bored than amused.

Ignoring him, I raise my hand and, without any noticeable gesture, tap a spot in the air. A control panel flickers into existence, as if it has been waiting for me to summon it.

Dan’s eyes widen for just a second, his mouth half open.

I smirk, enjoying his confusion. “A little technology trick we picked up,” I say, pulling the panel down to fiddle with it. The switches are all designed to look like ancient dials, and I flip them methodically, almost reverently, as though I am tuning a delicate instrument. The void seems to breathe around us, shifting slightly with each movement, as if it is coming to life. I can hear the faint hum of machinery powering up, an almost imperceptible sound that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Dan ridicules me again, folding his arms. “I do not get it. This is all just for some flashy light show? Just for effect? Or is it one cheap distraction to…”

“Patience, Dan,” I cut him off with a smile. “Watch, and learn.”

I continue adjusting the controls, my fingers hovering over the dials, pushing and turning them one by one with a practiced ease. The room seems to pulse now, each motion of mine triggering a low vibration in the air. Dan’s sarcasm falters as his curiosity slowly starts to show, but he masks it with another remark.

“I still do not see why you care about all this. It is just some empty void.”

I glance at him, amused. “You will see.”

With a final twist of the dial, I pull the lever that activates the system. Suddenly, the white void hums, the sound vibrating through the air like the heartbeat of some hidden, massive entity. Then, right before our eyes, the floor beneath us begins to shift. Tile pieces, small and perfectly square, turn over one by one with mechanical precision, and as they do, they begin to form a vast 360-degree screen that encompasses us entirely.

Dan’s eyes widen, and for the first time, I see the flicker of awe behind his sceptical grin.

The room continues to hum, and in an instant, the screen explodes with life, showing us a scene from the past, as though we have stepped straight into it. We are not just looking at Earth, we are in it. The world around us transforms, and before I can even blink, we are surrounded by the dust, the chaos, and the raw intensity of World War II.

Dan scoffs. “What is this? Some old war drama?”

“Shush,” I snap, the authority in my voice surprising even me. “You are going to want to watch this.”

The image on the screen sharpens. A woman sits in a modest living room, knitting by the fire. Her hands are calm, steady. But there is tension in the air, an unease that cannot be ignored.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. The only sound is the crackling of the fire, the soft rhythmic movement of the knitting needles. But then, in the stillness, something shifts. The woman pauses mid-stitch, her brow furrowing as she looks out the window.

A black car has pulled up outside.

I watch Dan closely, hoping he notices. But he does not. He is still leaning casually against the cubicle, his arms folded across his chest like a bored teenager.

Two officers step out of the car. I see the way the woman’s eyes follow them, the confusion building in her face. I feel a pang of discomfort in my gut as I watch her struggle to comprehend what is happening. The officers walk towards her house.

I glance at Dan. His face is still expressionless, cocky, as if he cannot care less about the scene unfolding before him.

“Watch,” I say again, my voice quieter this time. “Watch closely.”

The woman’s fingers tremble as she places the knitting down, her body becoming rigid with fear. Her eyes flick to the door, then to the officers approaching it.

Maybe she thinks they are just doing a safety inspection. Maybe they have the wrong house. But as the officers’ footsteps grow louder on the gravel path, her hope, her hope, melts away like snow under a warming sun, leaving only the cold ground beneath. Her breath quickens. She grips the edge of her chair tightly.

The knock comes.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Each knock sounds like the toll of a bell.

The woman stands frozen, her hands shaking. She takes one last desperate look towards the door, her face pale, as though hoping against hope that this is all just a bad dream. But it is not. The knock comes again, louder this time, as if the universe is mocking her fragile hope.

I see her stomach tighten. Her whole body recoils as if she can physically repel the grief she knows is coming. She walks slowly to the door, her footsteps heavy. She opens it, and there, standing before her, are the officers. Their faces are grim, their hats low over their eyes, as if to shield their own emotions.

The woman opens her mouth, but no words come. The officers step forward, wordlessly handing her a letter.

Dan shifts uncomfortably beside me, finally noticing the weight of the scene. But I am not done yet.

“Look closer,” I whisper.

Her hands fumble as she tears the envelope open. She pulls out the letter and reads it, her fingers trembling. Her eyes scan the words, and then there it is.

KIA.

Killed in action.

Her face crumples. The letter slips from her fingers as she collapses to the floor, her sobs reverberating through the room.

She finally screams, a desperate, broken sound, hoping for an answer that will never come. The officers speak, “our condolences,” something meant to give warmth, security, and ease of mind, but it sounds empty, hollow, and rehearsed, as if they have said it a thousand times. They hand back her son’s uniform, the badges placed reverently against his hat. They turn, silent, and walk away without another word. Her body shakes violently, but the tears do not stop. She is alone.

The scene begins to fade. I turn to look at Dan, who is standing frozen, his jaw clenched, his posture no longer that of a proud, arrogant man, but of someone who has just been humbled. He stands taller now, not with pride, but with the weight of what he has just witnessed pressing down on him.

His face is pale. The cocky grin has long since disappeared.

“You see now?” I ask softly.

He does not answer right away. His face is pale, eyes distant. Finally, he looks down at the uniform in my hands. “Courtesy of the White Room,” I joke, but no reply comes. He takes it, fingers lingering on the fabric, the weight of it is like the past and the future pulling and pushing on him.

He glances down the hallway, at the rows of cubicles stretching before us, each one filled with its own set of decisions, its own consequences. The cubicle is waiting for him, just like it waits for all of us. And like all of us, he will have to face the weight of his choices.