“This is like a Rod Serling Twilight Zone episode!” he observed. “Four of us locked in a room, and none of us know how we got here!”

“And none of us seem that concerned about it!” the photographer noted. “Mind if I get some photos of everyone with my Exakta 66?” He stood up and started looking for the best vantage point in the room. The short, portly conductor was already pacing around, baton in hand. Dressed in his black tails he reminded one of a penguin as he waddled about.

“How long have we been sitting here?” the ballerina in the white tutu asked. No one answered. “No one has a watch?”

"I don't," said one. “Mine stopped,” said another. 

He saw she was looking right at him. “Is your phone working now?” she asked. 

He checked it. “Still no bars and no internet.” 

And then the locked door opened. All heads turned as a distinguished fatherly gentleman entered. He had white hair, and was wearing a black suit, white shirt, black socks, and white shoes. He walked to the center of the room. He addressed the group.

“Congratulations! You have all passed your final screening. Welcome to the Artist’s Quadrant. This is where people who have made the world better thru their art go for their final resting place! We are glad to have you here. Go forth and enjoy! Have fun! You deserve it.”

He dropped his phone. It all made sense now. They were all dead. 

“Uh, don’t sweat the phone,” the white-haired host said. “It’s o.k. And those 420 minutes left on your plan this month will roll over indefinitely! But you won’t need them anyway.” 

And suddenly a blinking neon sign dropped from the ceiling and just floated in the air in front of him. “THIS WAY TO THE WRITER’S LOUNGE=====>”

“Go ahead, Alan,” the host said. “You can get a great steak and baked potato there. And there’s a bar. They make a great dirty martini!"

His last chapter began.