writing prompt: describe the days of the week as people
m o n d a y She’s the president of every club you can think of, and treasurer of a few more. Her voice is shrill alarm clocks and impatient hands ticking down the minutes to the next deadline. She is newspaper ink spilling across an antique desk and workout playlists on full blast at 3am. She is frustratingly opaque; you’ll never see her transcendental logic as she preaches Thoreau in linoleum halls covered in thumbtacks and laborantum tapestries.
t u e s d a y He is sixteen minutes from a breakthrough of (the most dramatic word you’ve got) proportions when his pencil snaps and his internet disconnects. He is the one who will come in second place every time but plaster a smile on because next time might be the time. He is heavy baggage on an airline going nowhere. His coffee is too bitter and he dropped his lunch in the hall, but he’ll try again tomorrow.
w e d n e s d a y Her eyes are the icy glass that cuts your lip when you smoke clove imports and her smile is misleading rosy whispers that say it’s true for everyone else but never you! She is ripped stockings and foggy mason jars and whispered confessions, wrapped in black lipstick and a nose ring. She’ll tell you you’re beautiful and wonderful and your best friend is twice the man you’ll ever be, and you’ll wonder if the orchids you bought her are wilting in her bedroom or a landfill.
t h u r s d a y He is a leather briefcase holding one newspaper, six pens, a company memo, and an eighth of whatever your heart desires. His lips are sinister bookends that hold together your thoughts like a padlock that’s been picked. He’s more trouble than he’s worth and he’s “one more day and I swear I’m done.” He’s a cadillac off a cliff, a fire on a bridge, the last cigarette on the sidewalk outside your tenth-floor apartment. He’s flannel and lightning and cheap vodka in a suitcase under the bed.
f r i d a y He’s battered converse, black and white tattoos, electrohouse beats that shatter the floor. He’s a drop of honey in tea spiked with absinthe, neon lights against white walls, fog hovering over a cityscape made of budding dreams. He’s every endless night and every infinite jump into the void. He’s shot in the dark, a ripple of water on the banks between now and forever. He’s a map heading nowhere and everywhere and none of the above.
s a t u r d a y She doesn’t feel anything. She’s a crystal chandelier at a paper lantern party, sitar chords and whispers behind royal purple curtains. She speaks like broken promises and sings like candle smoke on a brick wall. She’s toxic and hopeless and you’ll try to bleach her from your heart but nothing gets out bloodstains.
s u n d a y He’s ripped ties sewn with a threaded backstitch, black nail polish chipped away so he can show his face in church. He’s eighteen years in hiding but no directions can find him. He’s a hopeless case but those are the ones you like best, anyway.