Flash Fiction - Dining Room

'The dining table is for eating, not killing your brain.' 

Mark's mum sounded weary as she tried in vain to get her son off his phone long enough to eat dinner with her. It didn't work. He just grunted in response and went back to scrolling through his newsfeed, pausing to like and comment on particularly funny memes.

'The dining table is for eating, not cleaning your football boots.'

Andrew's wife pleaded with her husband but knew it was pointless. The table was not only a convenient dumping ground, it was an excellent workspace with all the good lighting available to see what he was doing and comfortable chairs to sit in. He promised to clean up after himself but she knew that would never happen.

'The dining table is for eating, not creating modern art.'

Julia's granny gestured at all the art supplies all over the table and flinched when she noticed PVA glue dripping off the side of the table and the upturned tube of glitter mingling happily with pencil shavings and god forbid felt-tip pen marks.

'The dining table is for eating.'

Adele said to herself mournfully as she draped dust sheets over the table and chairs, knowing that she would never host another dinner party, never have another family gathering, never lay the table again. They were downsizing. The dining room would become a forgotten relic in their photo album, exclaimed about no doubt when she passed away and the children's children pawed through old photographs. 

'Look at this table, love! Perfect for what we need.'

Kate jigged up and down happily as her boyfriend paid the secondhand dealer for the furniture, picked it up and slung it into the back of their van. The table jostled with various other pieces of wood on the bumpy journey, earning itself a vicious gash across it's top. It didn't matter, the disfigurement made it easier for Kate to chop the wood in two. She repurposed furniture for a living and would be able to make several small coffee tables from one dining table.

'The coffee table is for drinks, not your feet!'
Adele barked at her husband for the umpteenth time. There was something about her coffee table that made her feel extra protective. She buffed the surface with her cuff and smiled to herself. 

Claire Buss is a multi-genre writer and poet, completely addicted to cake. Find all her books on Amazon. Join the discussion in her Facebook group Buss's Book Stop.