<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8" standalone="yes"?><rss version="2.0" xmlns:atom="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:content="http://purl.org/rss/1.0/modules/content/"><channel><title>Examination on Gromet's Plaza Archive</title><link>/tags/examination/</link><description>Recent content in Examination on Gromet's Plaza Archive</description><generator>Hugo</generator><language>en-us</language><lastBuildDate>Sat, 30 May 2026 20:13:47 +0000</lastBuildDate><atom:link href="/tags/examination/index.xml" rel="self" type="application/rss+xml"/><item><title>Return to the Doll House</title><link>/stories/2017/02/23/return-to-the-doll-house/</link><pubDate>Thu, 23 Feb 2017 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>/stories/2017/02/23/return-to-the-doll-house/</guid><description>&lt;p&gt;Copyright © 2015, 2016 AmyAmy and all that stuff. All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced for profit or without this attribution. The following story contains fantastical elements, and may not make a lot of sense unless you’ve read my earlier story &lt;a href="../storiesad/doll_hotel01.html"&gt;The Doll Hotel&lt;/a&gt;&lt;a href="../storiesad/doll_hotel01.html"&gt;.&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Part One&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Number Twenty sighed, breath hissing through the nostrils of her mask. There was no opening for her mouth and the air that came through the nose-holes was restricted. A little extra leaked through the eyes, as long as she wasn’t blindfolded. There was no jaw-stretching gag or head-crushing pressure, so by maid standards, it wasn’t a difficult mask, just day-to-day wear.&lt;/p&gt;</description></item><item><title>The Interview</title><link>/stories/2014/04/15/the-interview/</link><pubDate>Tue, 15 Apr 2014 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>/stories/2014/04/15/the-interview/</guid><description>&lt;p&gt;It was a cold grey wet November morning at a quarter past eleven as I swung my Ford Mondeo into the car-park of The Criterion hotel in this midlands city. I had to attend an interview regarding a job position with a small company. The advert was placed for this position and I had been short-listed according to them after presenting my CV and my general personal details by email. I was now required to meet a Mr Davies who would be handling the meeting but I was running a little late due to an accident that held the traffic up as usual on the motorway.&lt;/p&gt;</description></item><item><title>The Informer</title><link>/stories/1/01/01/the-informer/</link><pubDate>Mon, 01 Jan 0001 00:00:00 +0000</pubDate><guid>/stories/1/01/01/the-informer/</guid><description>&lt;p&gt;&lt;strong&gt;The Informer Part 1&lt;/strong&gt;&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;It was a cold wet late winter afternoon in a quiet middle class inner city suburb.&lt;/p&gt;
&lt;p&gt;Molly was walking back to her home in a narrow, almost deserted street. She was a slim narrow waisted young woman in her late twenties with an attractive face and lustrous black shoulder length hair. She was not of European background like most residents of the locality in which she lived. Instead, she one of the indigenous race that had once inhabited the country before present settlement but were now very few in numbers. Like many of her people she was fit, athletic and very dark complexion. As a rule they were not discriminated against, not in the city anyway.&lt;/p&gt;</description></item></channel></rss>