Good morning, all of you wonderful humans.
Mondays! They come around so quickly! And guess what? So do Sundays!
When I was growing up, I hated Sundays. They made me sad. Weekdays made sense to me. There was school and after-school stuff, then dinner and an episode of Lost in Space or Hogan’s Heroes before bed. Saturdays were a break from that schedule. And then…. Sunday would roll around, with its long hours of nothingness. I remember watching Tarzan movies in the afternoon, waiting around for something to happen. I remember spending a lot of time in my bedroom with the curtains drawn, feeling bad about myself.
Oh, man, I’m harshing your Monday! Sorry about that.
Maybe you love Sundays. If so, I’m happy for you. Maybe Sundays remind you of family dinners or going to church or the whole family packed in the car to go bowling. (My family did none of those things.) Or maybe Sunday means the football game. I don’t know—I’m not in your family!
Today, obviously, we’re going to write about Sundays.
But first, a few stories:
Here’s one that’s got a Sunday dinner theme.
Here’s the definitive guide to the difference between Saturday and Sunday.
A story with an important plot point that takes place on a Sunday evening.
A story about the last time it happened, which was on a Sunday.
Bonus Sunday Ephemera to get your imagination in gear:
The name "Sunday," the day of the Sun, comes from astrological beliefs from the Hellenistic period—when it was believed that the Sun was a planet, along with Saturn, Jupiter, Mars, Venus, Mercury and the Moon. Each of these “planets” had an hour of the day assigned to them, and “the planet which was regent during the first hour of any day of the week gave its name to that day.” (Wikipedia)
The word “Sunday” can mean something akin to “amateur” or “inexperienced,” such as when you’re talking about someone dabbling in a hobby. For instance: “He was a Sunday painter.”
Someone who drives with great caution or very slowly may be referred to as a “Sunday driver.”
Someone dressed very nicely may be said to be wearing their “Sunday best.”
Every year, the Super Bowl falls on “Super Bowl Sunday.”
Nicole Kidman named her daughter “Sunday.” So did Mike Myers.
TODAY’S PROMPT
Write a Sunday story. Call it “Sunday.” I know this isn’t a lot to go on, but give it a try. If, like me, Sundays feel different to you from the rest of the week, there may be a story there waiting to emerge.
Here are a few story-telling things to think about:
Writing a story means that something is going to happen to someone on this particular day.
Though your story will be short, try to give us some kind of shift or change by the end. This shift/change can happen to your protagonist, to your reader, or to some aspect of your story. It can be as simple as leaving a reader with an image that resonates on some level after finishing the story.
The Sunday you write about (which may begin like any other Sunday) will be different from every other Sunday that came before. That’s why you’ve got a story to tell. So, you might want to think of it like this: “Every Sunday was the same. But then ONE SUNDAY, things changed.”
The thing that is different does not have to be huge or life-changing, but maybe the different thing IS huge or life-changing. Your choice!
You always have the choice of not writing a story at all, but writing something more poetic and static.
For those who don’t want to write about a day of the week, you are welcome to be like Nicole Kidman, and name your protagonist “Sunday.” Or write about a Sunday driver, someone wearing their Sunday best, someone planning a Sunday Super Bowl party, or someone dabbling in a hobby! Etc! Write what you want!
Post up to 400 words in the comments section. (You can write more, but only post the first 400 words—thanks!)
(I’m not going to police anybody anymore for posting more than 400 words—just know that I may not always have the time/energy to read the pieces that go over the limit. Thank you!)
See you next week!
Here’s a little Etta James to get you in a Sunday mood:
Two Thousand Sundays Later, I Think of You
Sundays we steal lipsticks from the drugstore, sometimes earrings, a popsicle from the freezer. At the ski shop, we try on parkas, laugh too loud and get asked to leave. Inside Durbin’s we take armloads of bathing suits into the dressing room, put on the lipsticks, compare boobs. There is only one thing I want in life and that is to live in your house with you and your sister and your mom who is on her way to pick us up. Your house with its wood-paneled basement, its deep couches, the smell of laundry, the Kotex boxes in the bathroom where anyone can see them, the table in the dining room, covered with books and papers. Your mom, asking me questions. What do I like to do? You girls should write some stories. Dinners are stews and whole chickens which we eat in the living room. On this Sunday, you put a bikini inside your bag. At the bottom of the escalator the security guard is waiting. You transfer to the private academy for smart kids. On Sundays, my dad opens cans of chili and boils hot dogs. My mother's back on the 7th floor, making decoupage. What I like to do is anybody's guess. Last I heard, you were living, I think, in Ithaca.
A cacophony of sound and aroma bombarded her senses.
Clank! Hissing, then an ear-splitting shrill whistling. If her head hadn’t already ached, this would have set it off. Two women burst into laughter as they queued, then relaxed into indecision.
She felt her insides churning with impatience. Come on, already. Decide. Coffee aroma, strong and thick. Thrum of banter between drive up customers and overly cheerful staff at the window. “Have a nice day!” punctuated each encounter. She shifted her weight, rolled her shoulders, and sighed. The day was already warm and this place felt sauna like. One woman turned and glanced at her.
“Oh, sorry. We’re slow, today.”
Sunday nodded at her, hoping her mouth was smiling, not grimacing in impatience. BANG! Knocking out the grounds, she registered. Clank! Hiss. Shrill Whistle. Bang! Rinse and Repeat.
The two women shuffled to one side.
“Good morning and welcome to…” Sunday cut him off, smile/grimace in place. “Twelve ounce latte. Hot, please.”
“No flavor?”
“No, thank you.”
“Regular milk?”
“Please.”
“And you said ‘hot?’”
“Yes.”
“Your name?”
“Sunday.” He scribbled on her cup.
“And what are you up to, today?”
Oh God. It’s the Spanish Inquisition. I just want a latte.
Clank! Hissss…and whistle…! And more laughter as one woman picked up a garish looking mug.
“Just on my way to work.” She couldn’t suppress the gleam of fire from her green eyes piercing the hapless barista. Must we engage in this inane guise of conversation?
She paid and dutifully stepped aside, slinking as far away from the early morning sun’s assault on the windows. She focused on her phone, then looked up, catching herself in the robotic gesture. As she pocketed it, she became aware of someone standing next to her–also putting his phone away. Clearly impatient with himself. Tall and slim, his dark hair just long enough to curl around his collar. He chuckled as he caught her gaze with his own deep brown eyes.
“Can’t wait to see how they spelled my name, today,” he offered.
She laughed in response. “Same here. But my name is a bit unusual…”
“How unusual? I bet mine is worse.”
“You’re on,” she said, holding out her hand to shake his.”
“You first,” he said.
“Sunday.”
He laughed a low melodic sound. “Friday.”
They were interrupted by the barista calling. “A latte for Sunny, and a mocha for Freddie.”