Day 65 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write a character inspired by a day of the week: Monday.
Shannon: Monday may very well be the most annoying person I’ve ever met, and will most likely ever meet. It’s her lack of fun and need to plan everything out combined that make her nearly unbearable. She never lets anyone sleep in and absolutely refuses to tolerate any slouchy behavior.
She’s a total buzkill who is always the reason everyone has to leave the party early. I hate how she can never seem to let go and have a little fun. I’ll admit she does have the potential to have a good time, I just wish I could see that side of her more often.
Erin: She was a new beginning. She had promise and hope. My past was behind me and she was ahead of me. The problem was the people behind me were easier and more comfortable than her. She was a challenge. A challenge with promise and a challenge that could change my life. Possibly for the better. The problem was the better only came with the change. Like any sensible human I was afraid of change and I was afraid of her.
It’s day one of a week of characters based off of days of the week. Let’s develop some characters!
Monica was leaning against one of the textured walls with her nose so deep into the book she held, I could only see her ears; a tiny diamond glinting at me. But when I called, much to the chagrin of the haggard librarian who shushed me, two flecks of storm clouds turned to me instantly. With me miming madly toward her, she rolled her eyes, slammed her book closed and stalked toward me, bubble-gum pink heels clacking on the tiles. Conservative blush cardigan buttoned right to the top paired with long off-white dress pants, she could have been a stylist, had she believed in artistic careers.
She stood a good six inches taller than me, even without the shoes, with shockingly white hair tied back in a tight bun. “Yes, Eliza? You’re frustrating Dorothea,” she spoke with all the authority of a fully-fledged adult, but lacked the credentials. When she pursed her lips I nearly knocked her on her ass. But when she turned to go, she paused to chastise me, “You know, Eliza, you should really focus more on the schoolwork instead of the outside projects you so enjoy. I’m sure you could be top of your class if you actually gave a damn,” with that she was off. Plucking her bag from the floor, she rolled her shoulders and was gone.
Instead of leaving the library, though, I wandered down the last aisles aimlessly; I was searching for something but couldn’t explain exactly what that was. When I reached the last row, after checking every single book in the section, I nearly fell out of my heavy boots. Standing in the middle of the row was Monica, poring over a dusty text that appeared to have been in the library for centuries. She didn’t hear me pad silently down the aisle so I whispered, “Whatcha doin’?” in my most obnoxious tone.
When the book fell from her fingers I dove to catch it, carefully reading the name that was written entirely in symbols. Straightening up, I smiled at the loathsome know-it-all before me, “So, what exactly are you doing in the occult section? I thought you were studying to become a world-class asshole,” shaking my head as though I’d actually forgotten the term, I corrected myself, “I mean lawyer?” I cocked my head to the side, attempting the smuggest grin I could as she internally crafted a lie I might believe. Really, I already knew what she was up to; I just wanted to watch her squirm.
Deciding on a tale to tell, she began in a nearly cheerful manner, “Eliza, I’m simply checking out the origins of an old wives’ tale. It’s for a mock case I’m building about a gruesome murder; everyone appears to be making the claim that he was mentally unwell, so I’m going at it from a superstitious angle,” setting the old book back on its cobwebbed shelf, she turned to leave without another word.
Just as she got to the end of the row, however, a thought occurred to her and she backed up hastily. Flicking her hair back, she raised her eyebrows accusingly, “Alright, so why are you here, ya little-” bracing for her crude name, I was more than a little disappointed when she had to think about it. Finally, all she could snarl was, “I don’t even know what you’re studying. I already know everything about my field, and you appear to need some kind of aid with yours.” Grinning like a fool, she sniggered snobbishly.
Instead of dignifying any of that with an answer, I took the heavy volume out, opened it to the middle, whispered, “Invenire response,” and concentrated intensely on the information I wanted. Like the air turning on, a rush of chilly air came at us from the side, flipping the pages. When I opened my eyes, the page open was on speed reading and outlined several spells to try. Glancing up at Monica, I flicked back my curly blonde hair and stated, “I say don’t work harder, work smarter. But I wasn’t the one who put up the flyer. I figured it was you, actually,” glancing up at her shocked expression I continued rudely, “From your expression, though, it was obviously,” I put extra emphasis on the last bit, “not you.”
Snapping the book closed and shoving it back on the shelf with malice, I just glared at Monica, wishing she’d say something, anything. But she just stood there with her mouth slightly open, staring off into the unknown for a few minutes. I tapped my toe and snapped my fingers impatiently before she sighed, “So it is true. There is something dark and mysterious here that could help with classes,” behind her eyes was a terrible longing; something I’d seen on many students’ faces but couldn’t attribute to anything good.
Suddenly, the tall woman was at eye-level, hanging off my hoody with her talons in my shoulders. Wild-eyed and practically foaming at the mouth, she begged, “Please, teach me how to do that. I can’t make it through two more years with these dolts; I want to party, blow off some steam, but I am constantly working.” Pity hit me in the stomache so hard I nearly lost my lunch, but I just shook my head, stepping away from her iron grip. “Please, Eliza, please,” she pleaded, literally on her knees.
Without batting an eyelash I answered, “I can’t, but they can.” I pulled out a tiny book titled, The Best Meditation Guide Ever for Chill Peeps, and passed it into Monica’s trembling hands. When it didn’t open for her no matter how hard she tried to pry it, I explained, “You’ll have to be accepted first. So, we have to go to Dorothea.” Reaching out my hand to take back my book, I tucked it carefully back into the pocket of my bag and sighed emphatically.
Monica rose to her feet, brushed off her pale dress pants and collected her bag silently, before standing before me, avoiding my gaze. Again I sighed and stalked around to the front desk where the curt librarian was studiously filing books. When we were standing before her, she ignored us, beeping away until her stack of books was depleted.
From my pocket I pulled out a small, old medallion and handed it over slyly, indicating that I was terribly bored with the exchange. She ducked her head under the counter after sizing up Monica and made a loud racket before returning with my coin as well as a paper ticket. Passing them both into my waiting hands, she turned back to her work and I started for the door.
When I was about to go through the doorway, medallion and paper safely in my pocket, Monica’s claws were digging into my arm and I gasped in pain. Dropping her hand, she whispered, “What was that about?” Her eyes were prying as they searched my face for the truth and I rolled my eyes. Shoving past her, I nodded toward the hall and marched out of the quiet library with an air of purpose.
We went down the hall without a sound, other than Monica’s stupid heels, until we arrived at an unassuming door that appeared to open into the middle of a mathematics classroom. But I stopped, turning to glower at the law student, “If I show you this, you have to swear you’ll never tell a single soul on pain of death.” At my intense stare, she gulped and nodded tentatively; I passed her the ticket and knocked three times on the door. When the door opened on a dark space that couldn’t have been the mathematics class Monica hesitated before stepping in, the door closing behind her soundly.
Created to Write:
August walks down the stairs, his hair a mess and one sock missing. He forwent a shirt because he wasn’t going anywhere yet. Trudging into the kitchen, he’s greeted by his brother, who has a cheerier idea of mornings.
“Cereal or toast?” Josh asks.
August groans, thumping his head on the wall.
“…Coffee then.” Josh says, sliding the pot into the machine. August sighs, pulling away from the wall. He walks to the dining room to sit in the first chair he comes to. He puts his forehead on the table.
The coffee maker beeps. There’s shuffling in the kitchen and a plate of toast and eggs appears next to August, along with a mug of coffee. “There you go, Gus.”
August groans in reply, then brings his head up so he can slide the plate in front of his spot. Josh sits across from him with his own breakfast. He watches his brother slowly eat, sipping his coffee every few bites.
“…You know, you don’t have to act like the day of the week- hey!” Josh looks back at August after dodging the spoon. August glares at him, clenching his fork in his hand. Josh puts his hands up in defense, “Alright, don’t impale me. I’m only saying-”
“Then you should only shut up,” August says, stabbing his eggs.
Josh nods, internally smiling, ‘Heaven forbid he ends up with a morning person.’