Writing Prompt: Day 70

70.jpgDay 70 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Write a character inspired by a day of the week: Saturday.

Shannon: Saturday is quite refreshing. He’s a person you can just relax with, because he doesn’t have any expectations. He’s a free bird who just wants to spend his time going with the flow. He’s the type of organizer who sets the destinations, but not the rules. Time spend with him is never wasted on anything but your own desires.

Erin: He was a free spirit. I never knew what a day like him was going to lead to. We could be talking a spontaneous road trip, we could be recouping in bed for half the day, we could be going to a party, or we could be doing something that I’m not knowledgeable about yet. He didn’t know either, because he was free from everything including hard-fast plans.

Second to last day of our week writing, Saturday!


One thought on “Writing Prompt: Day 70

  1. Sam leaned his back against the trunk, peering out from under his eyelids at his magnificent work as a ghost of a smile twitched at his lips. Posing like a goddess was a first-year in a flowing, alabaster cotton dress; emphasizing her delicate features were a gold leaf crown and intricate makeup about her eyes. With her face tilted slightly downward and to the side, the patterned light shining through the oak leaves cast her in warm, golden light. From where I stood, I couldn’t see his work, but without an audience to play for, I figured his expression of pleasure with his painting must have been true.
    Taking great care in keeping his eyes closed, Sam reached down to the right of the painting and took a long drag from a cigarette. Still relaxing against the rough tree, he took a few further puffs of the toxic cigarette smoke, clearly flaunting the strict campus rules about smoking. He appeared perfectly at peace with his beautiful woman standing before him in the sunshine.
    So I deliberately hopped down the stone steps and into the near-empty west courtyard, and stood waiting for the painter, or his muse, to notice me. After a few moments the woman glanced over and gasped quietly, shifting her fluid garb to better cover herself; I hadn’t before considered just how much of her the dress was actually covering. But when Sam finally squinted over at me, he just grinned and took another puff before putting it out on a disused paint palette. “Hey there, sweetie, want me to paint you?” he sighed, slurring slightly.
    When his model saw him sizing me up, she growled at the artist and barrelled out of the fresh air in a blur of pale linen. Chuckling under his breath, Sam didn’t even watch her go; instead, he stumbled forward on drunken limbs and smirked sloppily. But when he got close enough, I drew the line and searched my bag for a tiny perfume bottle I kept safely in the side pocket. Carefully spraying it into his face, I took a few steps backward as he sputtered angrily.
    “So, Sammy, how ya feelin’?” I asked in my sickliest-sweet voice. When he flinched and held his head I sighed and decided to be merciful, “Relax, it’s a quick hangover cure. You’re gonna feel like shit for about five minutes, then you’re gonna puke your guts out.” When Sam groaned and knelt on the paving steps to touch his inflamed forehead to the cold stone I resisted the urge to laugh out loud. “Then, you’re gonna feel as though you slept the whole thing off,” I finished, gazing down at the hungover mess of an artist curled up on the ground.
    After a few minutes and two rounds of bile, showing he’d clearly had a lot more to drink than anyone in their right mind would have even on a Friday night consumed, Sam sat blinking comfortably in the sunlit grass. “So, you know of magick. You must be Flyer-Girl,” he droned arrogantly. With sunglasses on, I couldn’t tell whether his eyes were open or closed, which was likely the point. Pushing the shades down his nose, he glowered at my impatient stance, sighing, “So, what do I call you, other than Flyer-Girl?” Raising his eyebrows, I saw his brown eyes glisten with interest beneath the messy black mop on his head.
    I rolled my eyes indignantly as I groaning right back, “You can call me Eliza, but I didn’t post the flyers. And you are using magick for your own selfish gains; the society doesn’t appreciate that.” Though my words didn’t faze him visibly, I could sense minute glimmers of guilt in the subtle twitch at his right cheek and when his shoulders shrugged forward a smidge. “Of course, the spells you’re using,” I continued, stepping around him to view his half-finished painting, “are to increase your creative talents. It’s quite good, really,” I nodded to the neat brushstrokes and careful detail in the woman’s eyes.
    But the painter remained silent as I inspected the painting, until I got to his personal effects. When I was surveying a small mass of cigarette butts, interspersed with illicit drug paraphernalia, he spoke up in a slightly laboured voice, “Please don’t touch any of that. It’s personal.” Ignoring him, I unzipped his bag to be nearly blown away by the stench of alcohol and, above that, something fruity with a hint of roses. I blinked the tears from my eyes, and dug into the bag before pulling out a tiny vial of shimmering pink liquid.
    Taking the cork out, I gave it a small sniff and coughed violently. Behind me, Sam was nearly falling over, laughing as though everything was a joke. I could feel warmth stemming from my lungs that spread quickly through my system, making me feel slightly high. All about, the trees began to glow with a rosy hue as they swayed in an imaginary breeze and swayed in the tide.
    When two strong arms encircled my waist, breathing musky air around me and plucking the bottle from my trembling fingers, I could feel Sam chuckling. But it was already too late and the spell was taking hold; man, the society wasn’t going to be happy when I finally brought this joker in.


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