Guest Post today from Grace Freeman. Finding a word prompt to write an essay from the following statement, "How would you DESCRIBE the days of the week if they were PEOPLE?" Grace shares with us her thoughts on the subject.
Sunday was gentle. She smiled with the softest dimples at the corners of her cheeks. Her lashes were light feathers atop deep brown eyes that always seemed to know exactly what you were thinking. She was ivory with a smattering of freckles along her nose, where the sunbeams had left butterfly kisses in the spring. Her hair was golden, flowing long down her back like a gurgling creek . When you saw her, you were content. Maybe even a little shy. Being in her presence made the world seem warmer, the days seem shorter, and the air a little easier to breathe. We took advantage of it. Sunday was a place of rest, and praise, but many found no help in her loving embrace. They feared the days to come, and would not trust her soothing words or easing prayers. They would turn their back on her. On days like this, she would be tired. The kind of tired that sleep cannot cure. For Sunday was only welcome when they took her for granted.
Monday was irritable. He was never satisfied, always searching for something, but nothing would ease his hunger. He was handsome, dangerously so, for his smile was misleading, with small pointed teeth at the corners of his lips. His eyes were so startlingly bright that many groaned when he came around, never wanting to face him. Dark auburn hair spiked messily away from his forehead, as if he were always in too much of a hurry to comb it the right way. He never ate enough, so every bone fought to be free of his skin. Few people welcomed him into their homes, or hearts. They slammed the door on his face, pulled the covers over their heads, or turned the other way to his cries. He was angry, and anger in Monday made his blood turn to ice. All he wanted was to be loved, greeted at the door like a long-lost friend. But he was only a burden, and that was all he would ever seem to be.
Tuesday was quiet. He never talked much and truly liked to keep to himself. Few things made him upset, and many things made him laugh. He was shorter than the others, with sweet topaz eyes and a tender smile. He liked to wear sweaters too big for his wrists, and ties with colorful stripes down the center. Blue was his favorite color, and he left it everywhere he could. On his nails and his glasses, in his spiral notebooks and flyaway hair. He took care to organize anything that needed to be. Pencil shavings were often a trace he left behind, too focused in his work to clean them up. Many people liked him, and others didn’t. They found him boring, tedious, or downright annoying. But some smiled when he walked their way, pausing to give him a timid wave. Tuesday was undoubtedly an introvert, but at least Wednesday was his friend.
Wednesday was a jokester; a bit of a maniac some would say. He was obnoxiously tall, with many studded piercings and mismatched eyes. Startling green on the right and muddy, hazel brown on the left. His right eyebrow, his left nostril, and both his ears in many places, all shone with a hint of metal. The others would tell him he needed to dress better, but everything hung from his lanky frame like spider silk on a branch. He loved black jeans, he loved holey shirts, and anything with spikes made him gleeful like a child in a candy store. He relished in pulling pranks and painting on concrete walls, and the sound of police sirens to him was as thrilling as a game of hide-and-seek. Those who were unlucky enough to hang around him usually took the fall for these gimmicks. Many wondered how he could hang out with geeky little Tuesday so much, for their polarized personalities seemed to set them apart in their eyes. Truly, he was trying to corrupt his prim and respectable friend, but nothing seemed to work. So Wednesday would run with us, kicking up dirt in his wake and leaving us in the dust of his dreams.
Thursday was ever observant. He was eldest, with sun touched skin and broader shoulders. His russet hair was trimmed short, and when he smiled, crow’s feet would appear at the corners of his golden-brown eyes. Just about everyone liked him. He was quite sociable, and was never too busy to help someone in need. He held the door for strangers, he always made his bed, and he would remind you sweetly that you’re capable of anything. He wore his heart on his sleeves. He left sunbeams in his wake. He could tell with just a glance that you were having a rough day. However, in our frustration, we shoved him off, told him to leave us alone. We locked ourselves in dark rooms as the sun shone behind the clouds. We had the audacity to wonder why it always rained the next day.
Friday was mute. He was small cupid bow lips that never made a sound. What he lacked in words he made up in bright oil paintings and watercolor masterpieces. His art was like smoke, so impossible to grasp yet breathtaking to watch. Paint could often be found under his fingernails and behind his ears, for he had a habit of brushing the untamed hair out of his face as he worked. Fourth of July was his favorite holiday, for fireworks took their turn to paint his face in brilliant works of light. His blond hair always had a certain way of falling over those lilac eyes that made anyone smile his way. He took us to concerts, and threw parties almost every week, and left ghostly kisses on the backs of our eyelids. Late nights he would spend running or skateboarding down dimly lit streets under the glow of fireflies and streetlamps. Arrests were made almost as often as love when Friday came around.
Saturday was turbulent. Her dark chocolate hair fell over her back like rolling waves on a stormy night. Her eyes were the color of the sea washing against a rocky shore. She corrected you when you were wrong. Holding her tongue was not in her nature. No filter came to her mouth. And yet, that is what we found most attractive. She enticed you with her words, even if she were talking about something as simple as how terrible the taste of coffee was on her lips. She would come back with scraped up knees or busted knuckles only to kiss you on the cheek before she was gone again. Saturday was whom we waited for at the door, eager to see her stride by. She was always on your mind, a phantom we would never truly understand.
These were the Weak Days. A family divided by periods of the night. But when the stars shone just right, the Weak would glow.
Did I forget to mention? Grace is my granddaughter. She is FIFTEEN years old, a sophomore in high school. She is already working on two novels. Look out, authors. Can a best seller novel be far in the distance? Comments?