Day 22 of 365 Days of Writing Prompts: Make your character a prodigy at something mundane.

Shannon: Carl had a strange gift, but one that we all appreciated. He could clean up snow like no other, and never needed the help of any machines. Even when assistance was available, he’d never accept the help. They would only get in his way.

He told us he was going downstairs to clean up the parking lot about fifteen minutes before our workday was over. Everyone in our department immediately went to the windows. We never gave up the opportunity to watch, because the way he worked was nothing short of a dance.

His only tools were a shovel, a bag of rock salt, and his preferred blue and sliver snowbrush and scraper. He started with the sidewalk, shoveling it in a maze like pattern and releasing the build up with what looked like the flick of his wrist. After he was done he sprinkled the rock salt like confetti, spreading it with so much joy.

Next he moved onto the cars, he’d go around in the morning asking all of the employees during every snowstorm if they minded if he cleaned their car. Everyone was too grateful and trusting to deny his offer. Still he would ask anyway, too respectful to go on without permission. He was dusting the snow off the cars as if he were fighting off their demons, but still gentle on their structure as he scrapped away the ice hidden underneath. Snow was surrounding him like glitter. The way he cleaned snow turned the task into an art form.

Erin: “Do you have one of those folding mechanisms like they have a clothing stores,” my mom asked as she strolled into my walk-in closet.

“No,” I leaned on the door of the closet.

“So, you just folded these shirts like normal,” she asked holding up a white tee.

“Is that so hard to believe,” I didn’t get why she was so surprised. When I lived at home she always put my clothing away, but that didn’t mean I was incapable of doing the task on my own.

“The hems are perfectly lined up with the fold. It looks like a machine did this. You must spend hours putting this closet away, she continued to speculate.

“No longer than the average person,” I argued.

“You’re too much of a perfectionist, there is no need for them to be folded this perfectly,” she grumbled unfolding the top one.

“I don’t care if they are folded perfectly,” I illuminated fixing it within a few seconds. “I’m just good at folding.” I walked out as my mother looked to my closet in wonder.

Even something plain can be made amazing if someone has a talent for it. What is your character’s.