Fiction Friday: an ultra-short story called Late for Dinner

I'm back with another Fiction Friday post. This is the time and place where I post my short fiction. Today's story falls into the realm of flash fiction, also known as short short stories and sudden fiction. This type of story is typically less than 1,000 words and often much shorter.  And if you've ever thought about writing fiction, consider this format. It's not nearly as overwhelming as writing a "regular" short story or, God forbid, a novel. Short fiction is the ideal format for a copwriter like me, since I'm used to writing very concise pieces that need to fit a certain space.

I hope you enjoy today's Fiction Friday post!

Late for Dinner

It’s time to go, Ned said.

I’m almost ready, Anne replied, straightening her skirt. I just have to grab my purse.

Anne knew that Ned was annoyed. They were due at his boss’s house for dinner in 35 minutes, and the ride to Evanston took at least half an hour. Ned hated tardiness, and the idea of arriving late to Theodore Gregson’s home for this important business dinner was unthinkable.

Oh, here it is, Anne said, spotting her black suede purse on the chair. As she reached for it, she felt a run in her pantyhose creep up the back of her leg.

Damn! she thought. I should have worn pants.

Fiction Friday: something new from Beth's Take on Life

Hello and welcome to the first-ever Fiction Friday! I've decided to post my short-short stories (AKA flash fiction) here on random Fridays. I got interested in writing short-short stories about 10 years ago, I think. And then listening to Three Minute Fiction on NPR rekindled my passion for this very short format (usually no more than 600 words). We'll kick off Fiction Friday with my story, The Worst Part of the Job!

The Worst Part of the Job 
The worst part of the job, Trish felt, and she was deadly serious about this, was the bathroom experience. That’s how she thought of it: “the bathroom experience.” First of all, the toilet didn’t have a lid. I mean, really, there oughta be a law. Trish had heard the NPR report about how germs and bacteria burst up out of the toilet and splatter the unsuspecting pee-er after flushing. In this tiny bathroom, no lid meant all that bacteria was simply sprayed into the air with each and every flush. Disgusting. Truly disgusting.

Then there was the low murmur of voices coming through the wall from the neighboring office. A psychiatrist’s office. Trish usually couldn’t make out what they were saying, although every now and then she would catch a word or two. “Colorful” she heard the psychiatrist say one time. “Bright.” Were they discussing personalities or decorating? Trish would never know.

Who could she complain to about this horrible bathroom, she asked herself? Who would take her concerns seriously? Not her boss. No, indeed. He was too stressed out trying to bring in new clients to pay any attention to her problems. She would just have to tough it out. Try not to think about it. Drink less water. The bathroom experience was emblematic of the job she hated. For now, Trish felt like she had no choice but to suck it up. One day, she’d find a new job – a better job -- with a better bathroom. She’d get far away from lidless toilets and whispered confessions. There would be no more repulsive bathroom experiences. She knew what she wanted, and she knew it was out there somewhere: a better job. The perfect job. With the perfect bathroom.