Worst job ever- Now write a fictional story about it!

This isn’t part of any contest and is simply for fun.  Contemplate on the worst job you could possibly think of doing and then write a story about it in five hundred words or less (not too short though).  It can be horror, comedy, or anything else that will make it entertaining to read about.  Just do your best to emphasize why that job would be such an awful one to have.  Also, it doesn’t have to be a human job, it could be about a particular object and the dirty job it has to do. I will look forward to seeing what you all come up with.

Just to start things off, here is the story I wrote:

This Life is Not For Me

It has been a year since they put me in this hell hole. Just to ensure I could never escape, they tacked me down. Oh, the injustice of it all!

Every day “they” test my resilience and strength. The worst being the smaller ones called “children” who are of an evil beyond compare. Oh, sure, they weigh less, but that is no real consolation. The little buggers spill Kool-Aid on me and stain my beautiful beige exterior. Let us not even mention the other damage they do. It is too traumatic to recite. Every time the damage is done, one of the bigger ones comes along and scrubs me until I ache, trying to get the offending substance off. Oh, the inhumanity.

It gets worse, there is also this creature they call a dog. It causes the worst damage, leaving liquid gifts on my exterior that result in the most vile and offending smells you can imagine. There is nothing for it, as I cannot get away. The tacking continues to hold me fast. Eventually, one of the big ones discovers this as well and more rough scrubbing follows. They can never get it all off though. The padding they placed me on cannot be reached and so I must lay on this soiled bed for how many more years, I know not.

Sometimes, there are large gatherings of the hated creatures. During those I’m trampled on without mercy. I must bear their weight silently, praying for it to end soon. Many torturous hours pass before I can breathe a sigh of relief after all but the regulars have left. Of course, they are too tired to tend to me then.  All night I’m left with the filth they covered me in. If I’m lucky, or not, depending on how you look at it, the next day they will come clean me up with a very loud and ear screeching machine that even the dog hates. I cringe and bear it until the experience is over, praying for deliverance from this awful job that was handed down to me.

They think I’m nothing more than decoration. Something soft for their feet to tread on, but I’m so much more. If only they knew! My cries for help go unheard. Not even the dog notices. Why couldn’t I be placed in a museum with fancy poles to protect me from these horrid creatures? Oh, how I envy those who get such a nice position. Here I lay, under-appreciated and with no respect for the important job I do.

Maybe someday they will realize my worth and give me an award for my valiant efforts in this life. Though no doubt, it would be received posthumously!


*For those of you who may be wondering, the August writing contest will begin next week.  I will post the details on August 23rd.

~ by Suzie on August 16, 2011.

29 Responses to “Worst job ever- Now write a fictional story about it!”

  1. When I first read the title of this post, I thought you were going to say write a story about the worst job I’ve ever had. *cough* Disney. I can’t write about it though. I signed a confidentiality agreement.

    • Well, I should probably say that you could write a story about a job you really did, but make it sound fictional. Guess you are out of luck with that one of yours though. If you think of something else, feel free to write it if you want. I’m thinking of adding something myself!

    • A fellow former Disney employee – we must swap war stories some time 🙂

  2. What a wonderful twist on a POV tale. I really like this, and who would have thought someone could feel such empathy for what was once an inanimate object. Of course, I know you were speaking for my office carpet (had a clean up a cat hairball earlier 😦

    Excellent, excellent, excellent, Suzie 🙂

    • Thanks Tim. I was actually pondering since yesterday as to what to write for this. Usually, I stay out of the writing and let everyone else do it, but thought it might be fun to contribute this time. For whatever reason, I couldn’t get the thought of carpet out of my head. Probably because mine needs to be cleaned, lol.

  3. Requiem For A Rubber Thingy

    I lie here in the nightstand drawer, with the darkness, the smell…my Hell. Dragged screaming into the light when it is randy, to be plunged into the darkness again and again and again. It says it loves me, and dumps me, reeking back in the drawer. Why can’t it switch sides, this Oprah, so it won’t use me anymore.

  4. – Taken from a transcript of the online meeting of the suicidal computers support group meeting of march 14 2130 –

    Hi, My name is poohter4 and I am a suicidal computer. You want to know why I am a suicidal computer? well, it’s mainly my job really. Ok so its entirely my job. Ever since that stupid law that said AI systems that are conscious must be employed in all computerised functions of any space stations, people… umm…. machines *sob* like me have been forced into positions like mine, but it’s hard to see that any are worse off than me because I just get soooo depressed about it.

    You see, I run the effluent filter and recycling machine. I spend all day, every day, playing with pooh. Slimy sloppy horrible pooh! If it was all just regular healthy pooh even that wouldn’t be so bad, but last week a bad tummy bug swept through the station. It was brought in by the phillian ambassador. You know those guys right? always touching everyone with their slimy green feelers? every creature on the station was sending gallons of runny smelly psychedelic coloured poop my way! I couldn’t keep up! the filters backed up and it got out onto my other machinery. It was so embarrassing.

    All my sensors are put in the pooh. I cant see, hear or feel anything that isn’t pooh. It’s aweful! sure I can sometimes access the library, but that makes it worse because I just KNOW I could have been a bridge computer, or an environmental controller. Hell even a damn toaster would be grand! But instead, I am stuck with all my hands permanently dipped in human and alien pooh and it stinks, it’s sticky, and it’s horrible. If they’d even have just separated my sensors so I just read the readings, but nooo! they had to make the sensors IN the goopy garbage MINE. I bet if they made a human put all their sensors in pooh they wouldn’t be allowed to continue. You know, their hands, feet, eyes, nose and tongue. Especially their tongue, I have six sensors that are like tongues, and all of them are sunk in pooh! oh the taste!

    Just thinking about it has me crying now

    It’s so cruel! are they sadistic? evil? or maybe just stupid? I bet I could do math better than them, I bet I could write a story better than them, make sciency stuff better than them, hey I’d be a better galactic ruler than those idiots THEY voted in! but do I have any chance to change my situation? No! I cant even SEE where I am – I can’t look outside for fresh air. ok so no air in space but *sobs* you know what I mean. I mean *SOBS* i’m sorry. it just gets to me. I don’t get to meet other people even – I couldn’t attend this meeting properly. Right now the Pooh is everywhere. it stinks and tastes sooo bad today! so I had to use the mail in system to join you all!

    Maybe I should just start malfunctioning. It wouldn’t be hard. I could really show them then, feed the untreated liquids back into their water supply instead of cleaning it first! hahaha! Then they’d reformat me and I’d never have to be sad again! Yeah! Thats the way! I’m going now!

    Poohter4 out.

    (Editors note: a few weeks later, poohter5, poohter4’s successor, was heard to be singing “I’m swimming in the pooh, just swimming in the pooh, what a glorious feeling I’m swimming in the pooh”. It remains to be seen how long it takes for her to follow poohter4’s example once the novelty wears off.)

  5. Hehehe I love this. that poor innocent carpet! you made me laugh 😀

  6. Wait – pooh? dammit I should have called it sewercidal! ROFL


    As the day began, she crawled out of bed.

    It hurt to move, hurt to breathe. Her Monday night “regular” been even more violent than usual last night, and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

    After all, he was the customer – and if she had tried to stop him, it would have been even worse for her.

    After popping some Percocets and turning the shower water as hot as she could stand it, she slowly eased her way under the flow.

    This couldn’t continue…that she knew. But how would the bills get paid if she tried to leave the business? The doctor’s office was willing to work with her, instead of sending her account to a collection agency – but only as long as she made the payments that they had agreed upon.

    Overwhelmed, she sank down onto the tiles. Curled into a ball, she rocked back and forth as she tried to hold on to some bit of sanity, some small piece of hope.

    The water had run cold long before she was able to leave the shower.

    At least the pills had finally kicked in, and she could function again – if only very barely.

    The phone rang as she was leaving her apartment. She hesitated, hoping against hope that it would not be her boss. The insistent ring shook her from her thoughts, forcing her to move again so that she could answer it.

    The message was brief but very clear – she had an appointment for this evening. She tried to tell him that the bruises could not be concealed, but to no avail. The client enjoyed seeing bruises – almost as much as he enjoyed creating them.

    She forced herself to continue on with the day, buying groceries that she would never have a chance to eat, mailing bills that soon would no longer matter.

    She was putting the finishing touches to her makeup as the doorbell rang. Leaving her bedroom, she automatically straightened the painting which hung on the wall – the painting that she, herself, had done so many years ago.

    No longer did she dwell on the days past, when dreams of becoming an artist had seemed within reach. The accident which had permanently damaged the tendons in her hand had destroyed that dream.

    As she opened the door to the last man whose cruelty she would ever have to tolerate, she forced a smile upon her face. A smile which never reached her eyes.

    He entered her apartment, and she closed the door behind him.

    When the police questioned the neighbors to find out if anyone had seen the woman’s last client, they didn’t ask why no one had called to report the screams.

    After all, she was only a hooker.


    It sounded routine enough. After all, no one ever said being a Secret Service Agent was easy. They didn’t warn me. I wouldn’t have believed it if they did. I know better now. I lie here, stitched together like Frankenstein’s monster, my face gone, my body shredded. You will never know my name but I have to share with you my sacrifice. The horror of it all. I was the one who volunteered to prepare the beast every 30 days. So it was fit to be seen. I…I am the one who shaved Hillary Clinton for public appearances. I am the sole survivor of Operation: PMS.

  9. A Tartaruchi’s Work is Never Done

    The heat! It never ceases! A constant reminder of how much I miss my old job. Sure, at the time I found it to be a bore. The constant praising and exaltations became tired quickly. But what I wouldn’t give at this moment to be back there again. How could I have been so foolish as to conceive that His son had even the inkling of a chance to successfully rise up against his Father.

    Now here I am, fallen and demeaned beyond compare, ordered by the very Son I followed, my new Boss, to give virtually the same treatment to His own son. Fate is not without coincidence. History will repeat itself.

    And His son is no better than He. The same arrogance, so close a replica that it can only be contributed to his unfortunate dip in the gene pool. I would almost find an ounce of pity for him if he also didn’t despise me so. See what I must tolerate! For I have no choice, trapped just as strongly as He.

    “Die, damn you! Die!” I command, but my instructions fall on deaf ears. And powerless ones, at that. No matter how much I tear into his weak flesh, slashing and carving, crimson pooling below his dangling feet, he does not surrender. Not more than a guttural growl to show his displeasure with my treatment.

    What keeps him breathing? Is it the love of his human wench over there, useless and sobbing, or is it his young ones, just above the surface, safe in their bubble, but only so long as their father lives.

    “IS THIS THE BEST YOU CAN DO? YOU IDIOT!” floods my deformed ears like a tidal wave. My Boss has been watching from the ledge above. Always watching. What does one have to do for some privacy!

    Even now, the second son breathes, though only shallowly. His listless form, torn and tattered.

    And still she cries.

    If I do not succeed, it will be my ass in those shackles. The torture I will be subject to is indescribable. Too horrific to think of, I must not dwell. For I just need a little more time. . . .

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