Two Women In A Lift (Original, 1000 words, 12+, for picfor1000)
Thirty floors up from Deep Command, the elevator froze, Orange Alert sign flashing; so there they were, noted international reporter and one-time top Kenyan-American supermodel Sunday Jones (in a deep purple suit), and the President's press-secretary, one-time pie-baking world champion Alisha "Ally" Sharma (in a black skirt and beige jacket), standing on either side of their carefully divided car, staring at the ceiling.
Eventually, Sunday reached out and pushed the ground floor button with one long, slender, gold-nailed finger; then two fingers; then her fist.
"It's an orange alert," Ally said.
"I can read."
"They lock the entire complex down until the Secret Service says otherwise, including the elevators."
"I'm also not stupid," Sunday said.
She thumped the button a few more times.
"I just mean," Ally said, glancing over, "that won't do any good."
"It makes me feel better," Sunday snapped, methodically hitting every button.
"You have. Ninety-six. Hours. Of available clean air," a pleasant, bodiless, somewhat robotic contralto announced.
"Yeah, that's not a worry or anything," Sunday muttered, hammering the Emergency button.
"You have. Six. Bottles. Of water. And. Eight. Ration packs. Security personnel will be with you at their convenience. Please remain calm."
A small click heralded a wall panel falling open to reveal said bottles and packs.
"Well," said Sunday. "I'm calm. Are you calm? I'm feeling very calm in this sealed metal box with its ninety-six hours of air and built in mini-fridge."
She kicked the wall, scuffing her sensible-yet-stylish gold sandals, and swore.
"Would you like some water?" Ally asked, taking some. "These things rarely last for more than a few hours."
Sunday stared. "Is -- is this a set up? Did you do this on purpose because you're still mad at me about that thing."
"That thing?"
"The Kansas thing."
"That was five years ago," Ally said, twisting the top off her bottle.
"That wasn't a no," Sunday pointed out.
"No," said Ally. "I'm not mad about Kansas. We're in a government bunker, it's a security alert. They happen."
Sunday growled and kicked the wall again.
"Those sandals don't match your suit," Ally said.
"They're good for running in," Sunday said.
Ally considered this, pulling pins out of her hair, umber tresses coiling off her shoulders.
"Stop trying to decide if that counts as ironic or not," Sunday said.
"Okay." Ally carefully sat with her water and a ration pack, thumbing her tablet-PC on before splitting open the foil. "It is a bit, though."
Sunday ignored her, sprawling out in the opposite corner, turning her own handheld on. "No wireless?"
"Security lock-down," Ally said, involved in her screen. "You didn't call me after."
"Kansas?" Sunday shrugged. "I was busy."
Ally sipped her water. "For five years."
"For, for a few months. Four, five. But then, you know." Sunday waved a hand. "It was awkward."
"Because you didn't call."
"Because I didn't call." Sunday nodded. "Can we talk about something else? The vote on--"
"I can't talk about that," Ally said.
"Off the record?"
"You're never off the record, and I can't talk about that. I'm the Press Secretary. There're policies."
"I can be off the record," Sunday insisted.
"Kansas."
"You said you weren't holding a grudge!"
"I said I wasn't mad," Ally corrected. "It's funny how inaccurate quoting can change the whole meaning of a thing."
Sunday banged her head against the wall.
"Doesn't that hurt?" Ally asked. "You should let your hair grow out more. It's very butch."
"Want to criticise my clothes while we're at it?" Sunday suggested waspishly.
"Would you like me to?" Ally asked, smiling. "Because, I have to say--"
"Let's not, okay? Let's just sit here, in quiet, breathing our ninety-five hours, however many minutes of air."
Ally shrugged. "Okay." She went back to her computer.
Sunday fiddled with her own.
Minutes dragged by in silence.
"I am sorry," Sunday said. "Not about the story. But about not calling you back."
"Good," Ally said.
"And the sex was good, right?"
"Not bad." Ally grinned.
Sunday chuckled. "Okay." She went back to writing.
Ally asked, "Are you working on the bunker article?"
Sunday shook her head. "Gonna give it a little space. I'm warming up the brain cells. Don't comment."
"I wasn't going to."
"I could feel it, lurking."
"Tell me about your warm-up, that's what I was going to say." Ally smiled innocently.
"I'm going to pretend to believe you," Sunday said, "because you're holding a grudge after five years, and that's a bit scary obsessive, really."
"Okay." Ally smiled wider.
"You know a picture is worth a thousand words?"
"'So why can't I paint you?'" Ally sang. Sunday stared. "That was a yes."
"Writing exercise. I grab a subject - a picture from the archives or whatever, and I write a thousand words exactly about it."
"I can do that," Ally said, turning back to her computer.
"It's harder than it sounds," Sunday assured her. "We have competitions in the office some times. Flash fiction."
"Mm," said Ally, fingers dancing across the touch-screen.
"You'll see," said Sunday, going back to her own.
"Done," said Ally, minutes later.
Sunday stared. "What?"
"Done?" She repeated, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "I've finished. A thousand words."
"You can't be done," Sunday complained. "It's an art form! Encapsulating an idea in a minimalist restriction. It needs to be crafted, worked and reworked, to perfectly fit the word count without sacrificing the narrative!"
"I get that," Ally said, nodding. "And I'm done. Do you want to hear it?"
"...go on."
"Alisha and Sunday were stuck in an elevator--"
Sunday groaned and covered her head.
"No," said Ally. "You'll like this. It has porn in it."
"Porn?"
"And then I don't call you for five years."
"You think you're funny," Sunday said.
"I am funny," Ally agreed. "Also, we have a few hours; I'm taking off my skirt."
"...can I quote you on that?"
"I already wrote the article," Ally said, sliding the computer over. "You should pay careful attention to the next paragraph."
Sunday did.