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Only on Sundays

Categories: Creative Writing Prompts Tags: creative writing exercises, creative writing prompts, writing prompt.

Finish these sentences: “Ever day of the week I _________, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I ­­________.”

Post your response (500 words or fewer) in the comments below.

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196 Responses to Only on Sundays

  1. joshuaw123 says:

    Everyday of the week, I’m in a tornado full of kindergartners calling my name every five seconds. “Mr. Williams can you tie my shoes?” Or, “Mr. Williams can you sing me a song?” Being a teacher of kindergarteners is a very mountanous task. I have to be moving, alert, and prepared for the worse for 10 nonstop hours Monday through Saturday. Break up little fights, making sure the kids are safe on the playground, cheking that each child is learning and moving on the right path. Then I arrive home to a lively six year old son that is eager to play anything that involves running. Whether it’s football, basketball, or even tag. My mind, body, and soul is on empty at the end of the day. But on Sundays it is very different. Sundays are days where nobody, not even my son, can bother me. Sundays are heaven for my mind, body and soul. I lay down on my king size bed. Feet propped up by two pillows. A glass full of ice cold gatorade on one side. A plate full of meat and cheese nachos on the other. Flat screen tv hanging on the wall showing my favorite football team, Baltimoore Ravens, winning every game they play. The nice glowing sun glistening into my room through the blinds. Sundays are days where I can rest and pay my own self, a great deal of appreciation and gratitude.

  2. joshuaw123 says:

    I am elated to be speaking at the well known national football camp. Hundreds of faces of different colors staring into my eyes. Sweat dripping down their faces, dirt covering their arms and legs. When a young boy ask me, “What do you do everyday to prepare your body for the season?” A smirk appears on my face, because the things I go through on a day to day basis is just unmatched by any other football player. Everyday I wake up at 5 a.m. and do a 10 mile run as my cardio workout through the streets of Downtown Denver. Waving to pedestrians and cars as I jog by. Then I come back home and drink a glass of vitamin rich strawberry and banana smoothie and eat a plate of protein eggs. Then I take a 3 mile bike ride through the mountains of Ohio to the local Edgewater High school weight room, and go through an hour and a half weight room workout. Exhausted I eat two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches to get my energy back up and flowing. Stomach nearly full, I walk down a narrow, spider web infested hallway to a small room; In which I do my daily yoga exercises to become more flexible. This routine I do Monday through Saturday at exactly 5 a.m. every morning. But Sundays are different. Sundays are days where my body is in heaven. Legs soaking in a whirlpool of ice and water. Back propped by a pillow. 60″ inch flat screen TV showing my favorite reality show, The Game. Sundays are days where I can sit back, relax and enjoy life.

  3. ninap2 says:

    Every day of the week I spend my days in school and work, but Sundays are different. On Sundays I sleep in and wake up to the sun peeking through my blinds. After a hot cup of coffee and a refreshing shower, I take the girl I nanny, Anna, to painting class in a very nice part of town. Usually the weather is nice, at this time of day. The sky is mostly clear and the sun still hasn’t reached the top of the sky. In painting class, there are several mothers and their children whom are very happy and social. After painting class, which takes an hour, I walk Anna past several small boutiques and art galleries to her swimming class at the end of the rode. The pool is only four feet deep, made especially for children to learn to swim. She loves swimming and always has a smile on her face. When she finishes swimming, we both go to get smoothies across the street. I always get strawberry banana and Anna gets mango. Then when we get back to her house, I hang her new painting up in the office next to her other ones. So far there are five paintings on the wall, but there is room for more.

  4. Icabu says:

    “How do you survive over here?” the young Marine private asked.

    I smiled. As a Staff Sergeant on my third desert tour, I’d asked that question once – long ago, and answered it many times since.

    “Every day of the week I play the deadly game of the streets,” I explained, “but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I play the hope game.”

    “What’s that?”

    I fitted my worn Tiger’s cap on my head, grabbed an equally worn tennis ball and a broom handle. “Stickball, boy. Nothing better than a Sunday afternoon game. You coming along?”

    “But it’s Wednesday, not Sunday,” the private said.

    “Over here it’s Sunday whenever the work week’s over. Like this past week, it may be sixteen, seventeen days long. But, Sunday always gets here, so don’t waste it.”

    “Oh,” he said, following me out the door.

    After scouring the area for IEDs and other dangers, we had a gathering of a dozen players in the six to twelve age range. I let the young private pitch and took on the role of coach – for both teams. Even though we spoke different languages, the lot soon filled with the universal sound of hope – laughter.

  5. TBusby says:

    Every day of the week I study for school, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I put away all my books and take a day to rest. At least this is what I would like to do on Sundays. Sunday, the day meant for resting and recharging- yet my nagging mind won’t stand for it.
    “Class is tomorrow, maybe even a test. How dare you put down that book!” Oh, how I wish that part of my mind could be turned off, like flicking a light switch in a room not being used. This would, however, be too easy. Easy is boring, and my mind refuses to stoop to boring. So I give in, and I study. I do make time to sneak out on myself, sometimes, and head out to the beach… But not as often as I’d like.

  6. don potter says:

    Every day of the week I write, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I relax and let my batteries recharge by reading what other people write. If God did his creative work in six days and rested on the seventh day that schedule is certainly good enough for me.

  7. e_logan says:

    Every other day of the week, I forget that night. But, Sundays are different. On Sundays, I don’t have the every day distractions to keep my mind away from that night.

    I was just a little girl. I liked to laugh and skip in the beautiful plum Orchard we lived in. In the Spring, the ground would be carpeted in a thick layer of beautiful golden flowers, butterflies swooping down to kiss the delicate petals, and bees humming the well-known song of Spring. I would lay out in the grass and watch the birds, dreaming of flying away with them.

    My parents were drug addicts, but they loved me. They’d take long walks in the Orchard with me along worn dirt paths. My mother would make up songs about the animals and weave me into the story. My father would sweep me up onto his shoulders and call me his girl. Those days were the best. Spring was like heaven in the Orchard.

    It was a rainy fall night as an intense thunderstorm rolled in. Lightning was attracted to trees, so it wasn’t rare when a tree would get hit by a lightning strike, but the sound was always so deafeningly loud. A big CRACK broke the silence that night and everyone jumped a bit out of their skins.

    “What the fuck was that?” Buck said, a paranoid tweaker. His eyes bugged out of his head and he looked about the room seeking an assuring answer.

    “It was just the lightning, Buck,” my father answered, with a calm yet somewhat condescending tone.

    “Oh. Okay. Good.” Buck responded, before taking a hit of the bong that was being passed around the room.

    Danny stood up and said he was going to the bathroom. An hour later he hadn’t returned, but no one paid attention. 3 hours later I wondered out loud if Danny was OK. The adults in the room, a bit slow to react, turned their heads to me with slow horror.

    “Danny?! Danny!” My mother leapt to her feet and ran toward the bathroom. But, Danny wasn’t in there. So she ran to the bedroom, where their treasure trove of illegal drugs were kept.

    Danny was lying face down on the floor, next to a tank of Nitrous Oxide, or more commonly known as laughing gas. His limbs and face were a cool, greyish blue. My mother, beside herself in tears and panic, kicked him over. His head rolled limply to one side – he was dead.

    That night, my dad found his biggest shovel and, in the rain, he dug out a deep hole in the wet earth and I said goodbye to Uncle Danny.

    Next year, we planted a tree in the same spot we dug the year before.

  8. Daria says:

    Every day of the week I get up and get my son ready to go out the door. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, he is off to school. Saturday, he spends time with my parents. I get his breakfast and have him out the door by 8:20 am, Monday – Friday because he has to catch the bus at 8:30. I then spend 30 minutes on Facebook before I start with my household chores ( which never seem to end). I start upstairs in my son’s room with the making of his bed, and sometimes stepping on a Lego hurts as he might have missed it as he cleaned his room the night before. It’s on to the laundry next which never ends as there is always clothes being added to the pile so this is my NEVER ending chore. I dust every surface within my reach as I’m only five foot so my husband will get the other surfaces when he gets home from work, this is the way we have done it ever since we moved in together.
    I sweep and mop the floors and before I realize it my son is home from school. I take a little breather then just long enough to see how his day went. He then goes off to play while I get supper ready . My husband get home at 7 pm and we all sit down supper and watch a little TV. At 8 pm, my son goes to bed while my husband and I go outside for a cigarette. Then we too go to bed.
    On Saturdays, my son goes with my parents so I have the day to myself. I still do my household chores as I know nothing will get done on Sundays because Sundays are different.
    On Sundays, I ­­lay in bed my son wakes up himself because he likes to cuddle. I cherish this as I don’t know how many more of these I will have as he’s getting older and I’m pretty sure he won’t want to cuddle with his mom soon. We talk about different things but mostly about what is bothering him. I find he opens up when we are just laying there in those early Sunday mornings and I wouldn’t change them for anything not even for ALL the money in the world. Sundays are OUR time, my favorite time.

  9. jensantana says:

    Every day of the week I go to work but not Sunday. On Sunday I rest. I watch movies on Netflix and listen to comedy with my kids and we belly laugh at Louis CK and my 15-yr old plays XBox on my bed and I let him, and we plug in speakers to my laptop and laugh at Aziz Ansari while Nick does Ollie’s on his Tony Hawk skateboard video game. We get to hang out and be a family on Sundays. I treasure Sundays. It’s our only downtime. The rest of the week is filled with activities and school, and commitments, and other people; but Sundays are just for us. Just for family. And that’s the way I like it.

  10. stepstep says:


    Every day of the week I try to forget, but Sundays are different. on Sundays, I reminisce.

    Throughout the week chores, major responsibilities, and other duties invade your time. Being so busy one hardly has time to think.

    On Sundays the atmosphere shifts and my mind reflects on the good ole’ days. The days before cell phones, computers, CDs, tablets, Kindles and Nooks, just to name a few came into play.

    You used to get much more for your buck. Contents of items continue to diminish but the price remains the same or increases. No more full gallons of ice cream, regardless of the flavor. No more five pounds of sugar, only four. Miracle Whip has whipped off 32 ounces to 30. Detergent deterred from the neighborhood and liquid form took over without warning. Here today, gone tomorrow are our ounces, never to be found again.

    Cell phones have become our best friend. No more luxury here. How did we ever survive without them? Ring me now. Remind me to pick up toilet paper, a loaf of bread, minus approximately five slices. Whatever happened to the peanut butter and jelly sandwich lunch or a snack? Or just ring me.

    You definitely can’t forget dot com. It knows you intimately. Whatever the situation you better believe the solution can be found on dot com.

    Manners have taken a vacation. Out the window with “thank you”, “please”, “yes Ms. or Mr.” instead of the exaggerated, famous, “what”, or “may I?”

    Kids no longer wear kids apparel. High heels for five year olds. Really?

    Times have changed. To some extent we all have to adapt to survive in this world. Is all change good or necessary?

    Why should you have to press one for English when I was born and reared and already reside in this country? English should be the first and mandatory language here. Why should you have to go through a zillion prompts before you can speak to a live person? The worst of the matter is sometimes there is no live person. To whom do you complain? Texting versus speaking deprive humans of interacting with others. Don’t you want to see the reaction of others concerning your conversation? Do you desire a live interview and your chance to give your input? Touching is required sometimes as well as intervening with live conversation.

    Sundays are beautiful. Soft music accompanies your thoughts of yesterday versus today. All traditions aren’t bad and neither are all changes.


  11. dejauveda says:

    “Ever day of the week I am haunted with the anxiety of a new problem.. hoping some strange occurrence doesnt take me out of my character..but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I rest all day and dont worry about the worried of tomorrow

  12. Pie Grower says:

    I write every day of the week, except Sundays. Sundays are different. On Sundays, I go to church, then come home and read more.

  13. Pie Grower says:

    I write every day of the week, except Sunday. Sundays are different. On Sundays go to church, and then read more.

  14. theafbaker says:

    Every day of the week I absorb his punches, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I plot my escape. We dress in our best clothes and head to our small town church. He sits beside me with his arm wrapped around my small frame while the Pastor talks about love and life and forgiveness. He nods when appropriate, says amen when necessary, all the while squeezing my shoulders as if I could slip away at any moment.

    But after church, when the congregation stands and makes their way to the back, a small old woman with a scar under her eye pushes people aside. Our eyes connect and an unspoken message is sent.

    “I have to use the bathroom,” I say as we are herded to the narthex. He doesn’t like this but with a grunt and a shove he pushed me towards the ladies room. Before he lets go of my arm, he gives it a hard squeeze and in a venomous tone tells me to make it fast.

    I open the door and wait anxiously by the sinks. Seconds later the old woman enters.

    “We need to be quick,” I say with a voice mimicking courage.

    She understands and hands me the name and location. I quickly take it and read it over and over until it’s engrained in my memory and then I flush it down the toilet. There’s a knock on the ladies room door that makes both of us jump. He’s out there, waiting, growing impatient.

    “I have to go,” I whispered but before I leave the old woman surprises me with a hug. Her old arms wrap around my thin waist and as she pulls herself away there are tears in her eyes.

    “Please promise me you’ll be at the location. Don’t let him do to you what my husband did to me.”

    He knocked again, this time louder and with a greater sense of urgency.

    “I promise,” I say willing myself not to cry. Then I take a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.
    We went home and the week starts all over again, but it’s different. It’s the last because I know that next Sunday, it will all be over.

  15. theafbaker says:

    Every day of the week I absorb his punches, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I plot my escape. We dress in our best clothes and head to our small town church. He sits beside me with his arm wrapped around my small frame while the Pastor talks about love and life and forgiveness. He nods when appropriate, says amen when necessary, all the while squeezing my shoulders as if I could slip away at any moment.

    But after church, when the congregation stands and makes their way to the back, a small old woman with a scar under her eye pushes people aside. Our eyes connect and an unspoken message is sent.

    “I have to use the bathroom,” I say as we are herded to the narthex. He doesn’t like this but with a grunt and a shove he pushes me towards the ladies room. Before he lets go of my arm, he gives it a hard squeeze and in a venomous tone tells me to make it fast.

    I open the door and wait anxiously by the sinks. Seconds later the old woman enters.

    “We need to be quick,” I say with a voice mimicking courage.

    She understands and hands me the name and location. I quickly take it and read it over and over until it’s engrained in my memory and then I flush it down the toilet. There’s a knock on the ladies room door that makes both of us jump. He’s out there, waiting, growing impatient.

    “I have to go,” I whisper but before I leave the old woman surprises me with a hug. Her old arms wrap around my thin waist and as she pulls herself away there are tears in her eyes.

    “Please promise me you’ll be at the location. Don’t let him do to you what my husband did to me.”

    He knocked again, this time louder and with a greater sense of urgency.

    “I promise,” I say willing myself not to cry. Then I take a deep breath and stepped out of the bathroom.

    We went home and the week would start all over again, but it was different. It was the last because I knew next Sunday, it would all be over.

  16. Jeremy Pink says:

    Every day of the week I think about the weekend, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I ­­am haunted by the return of the work week. From the moment I rise, I feel as though I cannot enjoy my last day off. There is much going on, much to enjoy, but my mind is elsewhere. I am keenly aware of the passing of every second, my Monday drawing nearer. On the seventh day, God rested. I envy him.

  17. throughdiscreteeyes says:

    Every day of the week I try to forget but Sundays are different. On Sundays all I can do is remember.

    The soft plush pillow and the wrinkled sheets and blankets spread all around, made everything look like a jigsaw puzzel. The rain fell calmly outside my window. I remeber hearing it fall-drip drop drip drop. Suddenly, it turned louder into a thumping noise. Thump thump thump! Frightened, I got up from my bed and made my way over to the window. The raindrops blurred the
    image of two colors no parent ever wants to see-blue and red flashing lights.
    On this Sunday morning I remembered when we laid him, my son, in the ground. Every week I try had to forget, I try to understand why, I trust god that everything will work out as planned but on this Sunday morning I am doing more than remembering, i am never forgetting.

    • Kerry Charlton says:

      You will never forget. Remember the good times, his smile, his laughter, the times he made you happy, the occasions he upset you. Christmas mornings, birthday parties, those rare times with one on one talks. There is no understanding on our part; comfort comes with passage of time. Only those who have walked in your shoes, will understand.

  18. terrylynn says:

    Every day of the week I watch people, strangers that come and go. Projecting images of who they would have you believe they are. But Sundays are different, I become all of those people. Insecurities masked and intergrated with arrogance as I sit down to a game of poker. Seven other players at the table. All focusing, not giving anyone signs of the cards they could have in their hand. Placing bets to either intise or chase away. Keeping a straight face while holding a pair of nothing or quite possibly something. The cards becoming less relavant. The eyes, are they shifting, darting across from player to player, or are they staring straight ahead so as to not be forced to show signs of weakness. Are they smiling or smirking with the voice commanding strength or teasing with hint of a giggle saying ‘test me’. Much as it is in life or in people impersonating who they think they are or would like you to believe they are.
    Then back to the game of life everyday of the week. Watching and observing. I smile within and wait for Sunday. With the skill of a well rehearsed actor who studied his subjects and is ready. Sunday comes, the curtain rises, and lady luck steps onto the stage to perform her best performance of a lifetime. “I’m all in!” I say with confidence and a wink.

  19. throughdiscreteeyes says:

    Everyday of the week I try to forget but Sundays are different. On Sundays all I can do is remember.

    The soft plush pillow and the wrinkled sheets and blankets spread all around made everything look like a jigsaw puzzel. The rain fell calmly outside my window. I remeber hearing it fall-drip drop drip drop. Suddenly, it turned louder into a thumping noise. Thump thump tbump! Frightened I got up from my bed and made my way over to the window. The raindrops blurred the
    image of two colors no parent ever wants to see-blue and red flashing lights.
    On this Sunday morning I remembered when we laid him, my son, in the ground. Every week I try had to forget, I try to understand why, I trust god that everything will work out as planned but on this Sunday morning I am doing more than remembering, i am never forgetting.

  20. WV Jim says:

    Every day of the week I am a normal, working stiff, undistinguishable from the unwashed masses; but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I become a Super Hero.

    Oh, not a super hero you would call on to save the world, necessarily. Truth be told, you wouldn’t call on me to even save your cat if it’d climbed up a tree. But I’m a super hero, nonetheless.

    On Sundays, I become … PawPaw.

    Yes, PawPaw: faster than a thrown wiffle ball, more powerful than a mad mom or dad, able to draw tall buildings with a single pencil. I am … PawPaw.

    And I’m not affected by Kryptonite or any other mineral. The sounds of screeching mothers means little to me. I am, after all, her father, and she still listens to me on occasion. There is only one thing that weakens me, and this is a member of the vegetable family; so I make sure and stay away from Brussels Sprouts.

    But to Tyler I am the all-powerful PawPaw. He listens to me at all times. He hangs on to my every word. Anything I say is gospel to him, and my words are as powerful as even the most profound Biblical statement or teacher’s directive. If he hears it from others, it must be corroborated through PawPaw. If he hears it from PawPaw…it is the truth.

    Believe me, I don’t take this power lightly. I realize my power must, at all times, be done for good. It would be too easy to fill Tyler full of cola and sugar, and let him run circles around his parents, all the time gloating in this influence I have over my grandson.

    No, I use my power for good, not for evil. For I am…PawPaw.

    Faster than a television remote, more powerful than cookies and milk, able to leap to decisions in mere minutes.

    I am PawPaw.

  21. HeartHush says:

    Every day of the week I get to get lost in the chaotic activities of life, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I get up at 6 am, put a tea kettle of water on to steam, as I sniff and allow the aroma of fresh brewed tea surround my senses, I slip my heavy terry robe on and mindful of any loose rocks, I walk out to the single rose bush that is blooming with its iridescent pink and red petals in the makeshift greenhouse that Grandma and I had erected in the months long ago in my youth.

    It is here, in this very place that I once again am transported to a time when I was young and full of life, visiting my grandmother during the hot summer months after school had long ago freed me to run and play in the grass, and work alongside my grandmother in her flower beds on those precious mornings.

    It is here in this little ‘house’ of love that I was able to keep the rose bush of my youth from becoming parched and withering away under the hot sun rays as it cascades from its lovely perch in the morning sky. It is also here where my grandmother breathed her last breath of life as the emergency responders tried valiantly to save her from fading away into the sunrise that she adored.

    • Amy says:

      Some issues with run-on sentences and missing punctuation. The tense also changes from present in the beginning to past in the end. Not sure what you’re really trying to convey here.

  22. Kerry Charlton says:

    Before Batman, this super power battled evil in the world. A man about town, who was he?

  23. JessCheney says:

    Every day of the week, I wait. I wait to hear the sound of morning come through the big looking glass in the room where we sleep-chirping sounds! It is not a good sound, not like my TOY sounds, but it means it’s morning! Time for my family to wake up! I know not to hop up on the bed before Pops wakes up, or he will say ‘G-O!’ and I don’t like that word. I don’t like it at all. So I wait and wait and try to ignore the chirping sounds coming from the big looking glass, but sometimes I can’t take it anymore! So I go and find TOY. TOY is my favorite thing in the world, except for my Mommy and Pops. TOY is great! Squeaky, squeaky, squeaky! it goes, and I bite it again, and again, and again! SQUEAKY, SQUEAKY, SQUEAKY!

    “S-H-A-K-E!” Pops says my name. He’s scolding me. I don’t bite anymore. Then, I wait some more. It’s quiet again. Pops doesn’t say anything. Did he go back to sleep?


    “S-H-A-D-Y…” this time, it’s my Mommy’s voice I hear. My mommy’s awake!

    I wait until Mommy and Daddy get out of B-E-D. My favorite part of the day!

    Then, I must wait for my morning food. I hate morning food. It’s always the same. I want C-H-I-C-K-E-N! I LOVE C-H-I-C-K-E-N! But I don’t get it, instead, I get my crunchy things.

    Then, the horrible time of the day! Mommy and Pops go away. They have left me, but I know they will come back. So I wait, and wait, and wait some more. T-O-Y is my only friend now.


    I don’t like that sound anymore. So I get SQEAKY! thing out of T-O-Y.

    Finally, I can stop waiting. Mommy and Pops have come home!

    I lick Mommy first. Then Pops. I wag my tail and jump on Mommy when she sits on C-O-U-C-H.

    This makes me H-A-P-P-Y. I spend every minute with Mommy and Pops, because soon, they will go back to sleeping room and I will wait once more.

    Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday and Saturday, I wait. And wait. And wait.

    But Sundays are different. On Sundays, Mommy and Pops take me to the place where Bones and Bow Wow and I play, and I am allowed to pee on everything! MY tree, MY flower bush, MY sitting thing, MINE!!

    Then, I chase Bones until I am tired, then I refuel-there is always a great big bowl of delicious W-A-T-E-R nearby. Then I chase him more, and claim 10 more trees! MINE, MINE, MINE!

    I hear Mommy and Pops calling me. They want to go home.

    I keep running.

    I LOVE Sundays. Because of P-A-R-K, because of Bones, because of Bow Wow, because of trees… but mainly because on Sundays, it’s Mommy and Pop’s turn to wait for ME!

  24. yellows says:

    Every day of the week I wear a smile. I study. I work. I meet up with friends. I study some more. But Sundays are different. On Sundays, I buy flowers. I drive for many hours. I walk through green grass and up a small hill. On Sundays, I visit my parents. I lay the flowers down. On Sundays, I weep.

  25. bjamison71 says:

    Every day of the week I masquerade –I become whoever I need to be, do whatever I need to do, and say whatever I need to say– to fit into this mold I have created. But Sundays are different. On Sundays, I can breathe.

  26. PoetWriter says:

    Every day of the week I allow my busy life to overwhelm me, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I take time out to go to church and find comfort for a few hours. Those few hours allow me to have some peace before I go home to the consent homework that suffocates me from all sides. Sunday mornings are my time to relax. I get to see my church family smile and interact with their friends, listening to the preacher’s sermon with their full attention. My church is my second home; it’s the place where I am the happiest. I swell with a sense of freedom when I enter church; this is the place where I can leave my worries behind me, for the only thing that matters is my church family and worshiping God. There’s no greater wonder than seeing the sun shine through stain glass windows, the beautiful pictures glowing with light. To hear the choir sing, the children laugh, the pastor’s sermon, and the congregation joining in song is such a joy and treasure. This is where I belong, and I wouldn’t change that for anything in the world.

    Once I leave church, I head home to settle down and catch some sleep. It’s nice to get some shut eye before starting my never ending stack of homework. Sometimes I watch NASCAR, if I don’t forget that it’s on. Most Sunday afternoons I end up reading. Reading is my passion; there is not a day that goes by that I don’t read. Reading allows me to escape the real world, only for a few short hours. Sometimes I get so involved with reading that I push aside homework until last minute. I know that’s wrong, but I can’t help it. I love reading way too much. Sunday nights end up with me doing homework. There are usually five or six homework assignments from three different classes that are due by midnight. This is where my life goes back to the normal stressful routine of getting everything done on time. I usually wonder, “Why is everything due on Sundays?” It just ruins my day. My happiness ends up turning into stress as the night passes by.

    This is how my Sundays end, with me waiting for next weekend to come along and give me a break from the busy week. At least the weekends are less stressful than the weekdays. Sure Sundays are when I have the most homework, but at least I get to have a few short hours of freedom in the morning. I get to leave my worries behind me, the consent pile of homework. Sunday mornings are bright and cheerful, not laden with the worries that the evening usually brings. My time at church is nice and peaceful, for those burdens of everyday life are left behind as I set my heart into worshipping my faith.

    • Amy says:

      This felt much more like a journal exercise than a story. It would benefit from pulling the reader into an actual scene of an event, rather than just a few paragraphs of reflection.

  27. Every day of the week, I toil on the shore, gathering the shellfish my town is so well-known for. I have to. Everyone old enough to walk must help provide. So every day I roll out of bed, drag myself down to the sand, and wonder when the sun and salt will abandon their relentless war against my body. Every day, I force myself through this routine. Every day… except Sundays. On Sundays, I am free.

    On Sundays, I leave behind the sea, turn my back on its beckoning roars, tell it that it has not yet claimed my life. I am still me. I can still survive without it.

    But only on Sundays.

    On Sundays, I travel west of the town, conquering the stumpy hills with their scraggly, scratchy, and scrawny sea grasses that bow before the wind. They aren’t much. They aren’t even pretty. But they are not the ocean, so I love them.

    Every Sunday, I climb up and over this subtle boundary between me and the world. Normal people stop at the top and look around, delighting in the view and the breeze. But I don’t. I am not normal. I scamper over it as quickly as possible, escaping my dull, monotonous life. I do not know why this fifteen minute walk brings me so far away from it all, mentally. Maybe it is because I can no longer see the water, no longer see that vicious creature that binds me here. But I can still smell the salt, hear the waves, and feel the hot, dry, gritty sand rubbing the skin between my toes raw.

    One Sunday, I tried to run away even from those harsh reminders. I ran for a long time across the moor, testing the length of my chains. They were long. Longer than I know because I gave up before I reached their end. A smarter person would have kept going, would have left her prison after going so far. But I am not a smarter person.

    That Sunday, I went back.

    Every Sunday, I go back.

    Every day of the week, I work with my people to keep us all alive and happy and to provide the silly, naïve traders with the goods they have come for. Every day I devote myself to this wearisome job I was born into. Every day…except for Sunday. Sundays are different.

    On Sundays, I am caged.

  28. rjm16 says:

    Every day of the week I yearn for something different, for something more. I spend my days in sorrow. This room is so dark, this house is so empty.

    On Monday I watch the neighbor tediously pick at her garden and wish I was brave enough to do so. I watch the children run to and from the school bus. Their faces are filled with so much joy and their laughter is oh so light. I try to smile as I watch them, but it never comes. They are only smiling because they don’t yet know what a wretched world they live in.

    On Tuesday I watch the neighbor walk her dogs, one in a wagon, and the other on a leash. I watch the little old woman across the street wobble to her mail box and I wonder what she would do if she fell. “I couldn’t help her,” I think and then the sorrow kicks back in.

    On Wednesday I don’t watch. I stay away from the window and tucked safely into my bed. My mind overflows with thoughts; thoughts of inadequacy and self pity. I am stuck here forever. My fear of the outside world will always consume me. I fall asleep with my mind still racing, wondering if I will ever be free again.

    On Thursday I wake to the sound of singing birds and a flutter of hope rises in my heart. Maybe today could be the day? The flutter is just that, a flutter. I am quickly thrown back into my trance. I sit at the window and again I watch. I see the trash man as he angrily tosses my neighbor’s trash into his truck. He is dirty. He reminds me of the man responsible for all of my sorrow and I begin to panic. On Thursday I remember that night, the one that changed my life. I remember the screaming. I remember the coldness of the knife as it sliced through my stomach. On Thursday the mere memory leaves me unconscious.

    Friday is a blur. I am in and out of sleep all day. I don’t watch on Friday. Friday is too hard.

    On Saturday my energy returns. I awake to watch the paper boy happily ride his bike down the road and the children play in their yards. I notice the flowers beginning to bloom and I think about Sunday. I look forward to Sunday.

    Every day of the week I yearn for something different, for something more, but Sunday is different. On Sunday I am free. On Sunday he comes to my door and he knocks ever so gently. Five quick knocks so I know it’s him. I open the door just so he can fit. On Sunday I smile. On Sunday he holds me and kisses me until all the pain goes away. On Sunday I am free even though I remain in this home. On Sunday the house isn’t empty. On Sunday he promises more days like today.

    • smallster21 says:

      Agoraphobia? PTSD? I want to know more about the source of your narrator’s issues. You suddenly state in one sentence the MC was stabbed in the stomach, and then as soon as you mention this, you move on and don’t elaborate leaving me unsatisfied. The images you created were nice, and I could see them clearly.

      • Daria says:

        Remember smallster21 in these writing prompts we only have 500 WORDS we can work with so rjm16 couldn’t give you anymore or she would’ve been over her word count.

        rjm16, I loved the images you created in my mind. This is a real issue with some people these days. It puts a stigmatism on them. Its a mental illness that people don’t understand and people who don’t need to research it to get a better understanding of it.

    • douglangille says:

      Sad and hopeful. I liked it.

  29. Thaleena says:

    Every day of the week I have an alarm set, my busy life does not allow me to sleep in, but on Sundays I turn my alarm off and relish every moment of extra sleep that I can. Sundays are my day to relax and take that special moment to have breakfast with the kids and husband. I tend to try to fit in small chores only because it’s hard for me to just sit when there is stuff to be done, but I try to keep it to a minimum. From the month of February to November The Nascar race is what you will find on my television. Jeff Gordon is a big part of our Sunday afternoons. I also realize that this one day is never enough and I end up wanting just one more day. Of all the days in the week this one seems to go the quickest. As the weather continues to get warmer and the plant life outside seems to be taking on a life of its own as the colors are coming out in full force, I find myself wanting to spend time outside, reading in my swing soaking up the sunshine, listening to the kids play. I wish on most Sundays that I could just stop the clock and soak in the moment just a while longer, but life is a cruel reality and Monday just waits around the corner.

  30. rubystambaugh says:

    Every day of the week I have guests over for dinner, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I have guests over as dinner. – Hannibal Lecter

  31. swatchcat says:

    Every day of the week I look down from my thrown on high, my son at my right hand, watching my children navigate life on Earth. This is Paradise as my son has said and yet each day moment by moment I watch as it turns into a living Hell. I am saddened. What shall I do? How will I discipline my children? The sacrifices, the tests of faith, the covenants and the commandments, all I ask is to believe and to follow. It’s written in black and white. None, is so great then to sacrifice ones self for a whole. I gave them my son. I will wipe it out, set to judgment, and start a new, but Sundays are different.

    On Sundays the numbers grow. Faith is abounding. Joyous singing and praising I hear from every corner of the temples of the Earth. I forgive and welcome all new believers. I answer prayers and the one’s who trip, I set back to the right path. I heal and I am happy. The angels rejoice. I have hope and set aside the Book of Judgement for another day. But, one of these days, soon, I will come. Remember, that “Who so ever believes in me, will not parish, but have everlasting life” (John 3:16). I love you.

    • smallster21 says:

      You are pretending to be God! How blasphemous! Lol, j/k :) …Why does God only forgive on Sundays? Is that the only day the confessional is open?

      I do applaud your portrayal of God. He would be sad at all the horrible shite that’s been happening in the world.

      • swatchcat says:

        I just thought maybe if God was asked to answer these two sentences, what might He say. I thought of Joan Osborne’s song, “What if God was one of us?”
        As for the question of forgiveness? I’m sure He forgives us whenever we ask, if we believe in Him but, do we take Communion everyday? There is a symbolism in forgiveness on Sundays. I was about to say I don’t offend anyone with this but I would think a good writer would want to offend or evoke every kind of emotion to reel in as many readers as possible, that’s what makes good stuff.

        • swatchcat says:

          CORRECTION: ” I was about to say I don’t offend anyone” SHOULD BE: I was about to say I hope I don’t offend anyone.

          • smallster21 says:

            I wasn’t offended. I was being sarcastic, but not in a way in which I was criticizing what you wrote. I was raised Catholic, so I understand the symbolism and traditions; I was just being a smartass about it. I think your idea was a good one.

  32. TheEast says:

    Every day of the week as long as I could remember would be spent training, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I wouldn’t get to go outside at all. When there was a knock a the door at 17:00 my parents would lock me in my room and wouldn’t let me out till the next morning; which would again be spent training. I couldn’t remember the last time I spoke with another person besides my parents. Living on the land that we did I wouldn’t have to leave to train. I would do all my work there. Before I would ask them why, why I had to stay in on Sunday’s, why I had to train. Questions like those, but then I stopped. Knowing I would never get the answer I wanted. So I just trained. Sword fighting. Knife throwing. Archery. Survival. Art. Math. Science. Dance. Pretty much anything they could think of. I didn’t like it, but I had nothing else to do. I knew I could leave at anytime, it’s not like they were my real parents. My real parents would never make me do that kind of stuff. Self defense techniques. Hand to hand combat. Medicals. Wrestling. Negotiation. Yoga. I knew who my parents were because I remembered them. Gardening. Linguistics. Forgery. Lock picking. They never really had complete control over me, and they never will. I even know who it is that comes to the house every Sunday at 17:00. It was the CIA. They were looking for something, someone. Someone who was lost 17 years ago. I am 17 years old. I think they are looking for me.
    My name is Archer Maddison, and I think I was kidnapped 17 years ago. I am being held hostage in my own home. Someone please help me.

  33. Roger says:

    Every day of the week I am looking forward to the end of the week so I can relax and do whatever I feel like doing. I can go fishing, play golf, or visit friends and relatives. I relish the weekends, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I realize the weekend is now coming to a close and I haven’t done any of the things I thought I wanted to do. How disappointing! To find my favorite time of the week is ending so soon, and with so little accomplished. There is now nothing left for me to do but go to church and pray that next weekend will be better, longer, and more productive. I have heard it said that what goes around comes around. That is certainly true of my weekends, or should that be spelled ‘weak ends’?

  34. endlesshorizons says:

    Everyday of the week, I work. But Sundays are different, on Sundays I edit.

    I travel the world for work. I also, travel with a camera, I try to capture the places I go in pictures and I write about the journeys I’ve had and the people I’ve met. On those travel weeks, I capture the most on Sundays because I’m not working. I’m seeing the world, generally alone with a camera and my thoughts. I go at my own pace, see as much as I can and chase a sunset if weather allows. Once the sun goes down and I have seen all I can see, I write. I write so I remember but more importantly I write for others, who may never see past their world. People who will never get to travel as I do.

    On the Sundays when I’m not traveling I edit. I edit my photos and writing, but then I share. I share with those who’ve had a rough week or some that have had the same week they always have. I put my writing away for another day, when I can work less and write more. I believe I’m destined to write with a camera close by. For now I edit and prepare for the next journey. I do love my Sundays though, it prepares me for my destiny.

  35. Christina de Vries says:

    Ever day of the week I exist. I go through all of my regular routines and the days just keeps on rolling by, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I live. I take my time to be even more creative, to follow my heart and to not forget the important things in life. On Sundays I live, and I live for Sundays.

  36. chipper says:

    Only on Sundays
    By: Chipper/21Apr2013

    Every day of the week I swish together some cereal with warm water for breakfast, but Sundays are different. On Sundays I have exotic fruit juices or fruit like strawberries or a mango and a full course cooked breakfast of eggs and sausage or bacon and ham with toast and sweet buns of some kind and coffee and conversation; lots and lots of conversation.

    I don’t go to work on Sundays. Sunday is my day to relax and do different things. Sometimes I go to church on Sundays and on those occasions, breakfast is delayed and becomes a brunch we devour sometime before noon.

    It is said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day and on Sundays, for me that is very true. Not just because of the nutritional value of the food, but the emotional value of the conversation and pleasure of socializing which time does not permit on weekdays. Everyone is too busy during the week, rushing off to work or school and doing all the things that earn us the reward of the weekend – sleeping-in to rest the body and changing our routine to do more enjoyable things that rejuvenate the brain. Change, it is also said, is as good as a vacation.

    That said, regardless of the places we visit, a life well lived can be an especially wholesome experience. It can be rewarding simply by maximizing on the relationships which most of us take for granted, until it is too late. Then we say, “If only…”

    My mother started these Sunday feasts when she was alive and guiding us kids. Now that she is gone, it is a lot more than a simple get-together with everyone, it is a connection back to a time when generations of love was alive and all around us – a time of beautiful experiences.

    So Sundays are different for me. Sunday breakfast is not just a meal; it is a link to a time and people, present and past, which are very important in my life. It is an occasion of beautiful memories.

    It is for me, my Sunday souvenir.

    • smallster21 says:

      I found myself skipping over the first half and then found something nice in the second part of this. I like the nostalgia you begin to invoke with the mention of the tradition your mother started. Maybe focusing more on that than on the food you are eating (or at least connect the food to memories of the past) would strengthen this piece.

  37. HannaAnna says:

    Every day of the week I take pictures–lovely pictures, abominable pictures, full of love and sin–but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I make them what they truly are–evidence. And justice is swiftly served.

  38. Kerry Charlton says:


    In a large apartment overlooking Central Park, an early morning jangle of a phone, awakened Lamont. A woman’s voice edged in fear…….

    “They know who you are now; doesn’t that worry you?”

    “Don’t be concerned. I’m setting a trap for Gray Fist using my nemesis as bait.”

    “But what if something goes wrong, Lamont? I won’t be there to help you.”

    “It’s Sunday Margot. They won’t be able to get here before the early part of the week. Why don’t you come over?”

    “Twenty minutes and I’ll be there darling.”

    Lamont eased the black phone back on the cradle and smiled. ‘Sundays are mine, he mused.’

  39. rubystambaugh says:

    Every day of the week I invite guests over and serve them dinner, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I invite them over and they serve – as my dinner. — Hannibal Lecter

  40. Julieann says:

    But on Sunday

    Every day of the week, I dream of the weekend. I dream of the time with family, the gardening, the quilting, the shopping, the movies, the parties, the ball games, all the fun things we are taught life is about, but Sundays are different.

    On Sundays, I take time to worship, to sing beautiful old hymns, to listen and to learn from the Good Book. On Sundays I rest, as God rested on the seventh day. I take the time to look around, and yes, I see the serpent, but still I say, I believe, that it is good!

  41. JoyHolliday says:

    Ever day of the week I must wear latex gloves to keep the stench from absorbing into my dry skin_________, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I ­­can toss the gloves aside and dip my fingers in the cool of the holy water and rinse away the stench of every other day.________.”

  42. AHummell says:

    Every day of the week I work hard, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I relax.

  43. davedavedavedavedave says:

    Ever day of the week, I like to spell the word “every” as “ever,” which as you can see, I did at the beginning of this sentence, today being Saturday, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I join myself in literary spirit with the herd of automatons who wander the cosmos with no purpose but to spell English words in the legally-correct way, which is to say, in a manner compliant with the Rules of English, as enforced by Language Police. I think my one-day-a-week correct spelling of “every” has been sufficient for them, because they have not knocked down my door, much less contacted me for questioning. But who knows, they may not have gotten to me yet. Until then, however, I will continue to live dangerously, EVER day except Sunday.

  44. Sandra Ink says:

    Every day of the week I work until five and rush home to get everything done. I make dinner and make sure it’s perfect. I go over what has already been done and do it again. Every day of the week I wait for him to come home either drunk or angry or both. I smile meekly and say little. I never know if I’m going to “trip and fall” or “run into a door”, because I am so very clumsy. Every day of the week I try to be perfect and fail. Every day I cry myself to sleep or am to exhausted to cry or sleep.

    Sundays are different. On Sundays I plan to leave. I plan to get the hell out of this house and find a new life away from fear and anger and pain. On Sundays I plan, every Sunday.

  45. Incredulous says:

    Every day of the week I desire, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I’m an uninhibited gourmand.

  46. slayerdan says:

    “Every day of the week I live with the blade to my throat, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I am numb and the blade is not needed.In silence, it waits for its eventual destiny.

  47. phfed says:

    Every day of the week I write shite, but sundays are different. On sundays I edit.

  48. sillyman23 says:

    Every day of the week I believe.
    I believe that I will be forgiven of my sins, of my lies and stolen memories. Of my wasted life and ragged spirit that exudes from my body. I believe this will all be forgiven from God. Lifted from my shoulders and hidden away until I reach the Hall of Judgement. Holding onto the bars of Hell and the Gates of Heaven.
    Every day of the week I believe.
    But Sundays are different.
    On Sundays,
    I pretend.
    I pretend that what I say aren’t lies, I pretend that God won’t take me by the wrists and shove me into the cold, dark prison of Hell. I pretend that I still have a chance at life.
    Until Monday comes, I pretend.
    Then, I believe for six more days.

  49. Mittens1326 says:


    Every day of the week I pretend.

    On Monday when he kisses his wife goodbye over the minivan window I pretend their marriage is already dead.

    His wife is tall and thin with a Julia Roberts laugh. She bakes muffins for the staff and volunteers regularly at the office. I steal glances at her face. There are fine lines around her mouth and creases framing her eyes that tell me she’s lived a happy life. I’m almost certain I will ruin it.

    At Tuesday’s meeting I pretend not to notice the revised leadership covenant requiring all staff members to be above reproach. I sign it hastily.

    I look away on Wednesday as three little girls run around their daddy’s desk and pretend the fantasies in my mind wouldn’t hurt anyone. Their blonde heads are a blur as they complete their laps, knocking the “Pastor Mark” plaque to the floor. The littlest one stops short and regards me shyly.

    “You’re pretty,” she giggles.

    Thursday we review the preaching schedule. I pretend I’m indifferent when his hand rests briefly on my knee. His touch is casual and becoming more frequent.

    “You’re a lifesaver,” he sighs gratefully.

    I pretend I’d been equally as dedicated to white-haired Pastor Davis in the twilight of his ministry.

    We work seamlessly together. I am the gatekeeper to the holy of holies. I know which calls to allow and which to intercept, which staff members warrant his attention. I can judge by the intensity of his keystrokes if he’s frustrated or inspired. I’m his sounding board, his problem-solver. I have grown protective of him. He has earned my admiration, my respect. He’s a brilliant speaker. His sermons are passionate. Convicting. I pretend my affection is innocent. Hasn’t he won over the entire congregation?

    I pretend to agree with my husband late Friday night when I call to tell him not to wait up. “It’s a church, not an investment bank,” he laments. “Even God rested on the seventh day.”

    I push the thought of God aside, like I’m laying His picture face-down on the nightstand in preparation for something I don’t want Him to see.

    On Saturday my husband has good news. He’s landed a new client at work and earned an unexpected bonus. Now we can step up our timeline and start trying sooner. Won’t the extra cash be a blessing when I’m on maternity leave? I nod and pretend to smile.

    But Sundays are different.

    On Sundays when the crowds disperse after the evening service we walk from the sanctuary to the office to deposit the offering. Mark accompanies me – a safeguard so no one is left alone with the money. But there’s nothing safe about walking next to him in the warm spring air.

    I hand him a water bottle and he accepts it wordlessly, our fingers brushing together, our steps synchronized. He’s always parched after a long day of preaching.

    On Sundays he locks the office door behind us.

    On Sundays I don’t pretend.

  50. Mamajama says:

    “Every day of the week I awake thinking how my life could be different than the day before, but Sundays are different. On Sundays I sit at my computer and stare at my keyboard wondering who put the letters out of alphabetical order and the numbers two times on the keyboard. Every time I make my fingers to align with the letters on the key board
    “OOOO MMM GGG!” I scream loudly, “I CAN’T DO THIS.”

  51. MegN587 says:

    Every day of the week I am jolted awake by the irritating noise of my cell phone alarm clock playing music I thought would be less annoying the night before when I set it. I almost leap out of bed with my heart pounding and then I realize I am not in the middle of a rock concert but just in my bed with pillows and blankets strewn around me.
    I quickly get up and rush to the bathroom to start my routine, even though I have only been up ten minutes I feel as if I am behind already. Quickly I straighten my hair and wash my face. As I look in the mirror I realize I look older, worn and weathered by a job that takes up six days a week. After dabbing some moisturizer on my face, I hastily apply what little make up I wear. Within fifteen minutes the powder is covering most of the blue circles hanging under my eyes and the blush adds color to my face. I take one more look in the mirror, wondering if I put more work into what I looked like I wouldn’t look five years older than I actually am, but quickly push that thought to the back of my mind as I walk back in to my bedroom to get dressed in brown slacks and a flowery shirt, slipping my feet into my Toms which are as much a fixture to my outfit as the stark white lab coat I wear every day.
    My phone begins to vibrate and ring in my pocket, as I look at the screen I realize it’s my overbearing and controlling mother. I almost ignore it, but I don’t. “Hi, mom,” I try and say in a vibrant voice when I feel anything but.
    “Hi, honey I was just trying to catch you before you rush off to the hospital. I know your internship is almost done and I was talking to Jacklyn Evans over at Harborview Medical Center, she is on the board and with her recommendation I think you could come home and do your residency. What do you think?” She sounded hopeful.
    “Mom, I want to finish everything here. I have told you this…” I feel exasperated. How many times do I have to tell her? “I have to go.”
    I am glad that tomorrow is Sunday. On Sundays I get to stay home all day, ignore my phone and stay in my pajamas and watch chick flicks all day. I could do more productive things with my day off, but it makes the whole week worth living for.

  52. Larry says:

    “Every day of the week I go to the gym at six in the morning, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I start my day at six am. While the day still has that crisp fresh feel that feels of new hope. I go outside and walk no matter the weather. It may be raining; it may be snowing, or sun shining. Does not matter I walk. I walk the half mile to the church in middle of town. The service starts at eight, but I have to be there by seven if I want a seat up front. There I am every Sunday at seven front row right side center. The folks know that’s my spot. I was sick one Sunday and everyone asked where’s Bob he must be sick. The sermons are long but powerful. Pastor Simpson can really belt out a fire and brimstone speech. But I am a believer so I yell Amen right along with the rest of the sinners. After the service I join some of my fellow parishioners in the basement for coffee and donuts. I think every time donuts, I work all week to stay fit and I am eating donuts. So I am very careful to make sure no one sees me taking two more. After the donuts I walk back home, thus getting rid of the two extra donuts. I hop into my truck and drive to the bowling alley for a couple hours of bowling with my sisters and their kids. Well more about that another time.

  53. JRSimmang says:

    The man at the lunch counter is usually the only one who listens to me when I start to ramble. He takes his knife, serrated for slicing bread of course, saws his way through a tough loaf of rye, and magic happens.
    “Tony,” I say, always thinking to myself that for some reason I found his stereotypical Italian name funny, “every day I order a ham and Swiss on rye, with a little olive oil drizzle and a side of potato chips.”

    He looked up from under his black bushy eyebrows and lack of eyelashes. “And?”

    I wasn’t expecting that question. I wasn’t expecting a question period. I stared at him in apparent shock, mouth agape.

    “And?” he asked again, I suppose because he thought I didn’t hear him the first time.

    “I don’t know.”

    He took off his plastic gloves. “Sundays are different.” He sighed. “On Sundays, I go out to my parents’ property. They’re dead now. They’ve left me 1200 acres of untamed wilderness. It was my dad’s dream to build my mother a house on the highest point on that land, which overlooks the Colorado. They got as far as leveling out the land on top of that hill.
    “Then, dad had a heart attack. Died right there on the spot.” He put on a new pair of gloves. “Mom grieved for eighteen months. She slept all day and at night she would escape into the house, making a ghost of herself. I was fifteen and I got a girl pregnant.”
    I leaned in. I realized I didn’t know a single thing about this man.
    “Her name was Abbey. My mom’s. Not the girl’s. The girl’s name was LeeAnne. My mom took LeeAnne into our house, saw her through the pregnancy. LeeAnne and I got married when I turned 17. Our daughter, Frances, lives with her now. But, my mom, died three months after Frances was born.
    “This land out there, this 1200 acres, I named Frances Abbey. That’s where I go on Sundays.”

    I leaned back in my chair, hot ham and Swiss on rye steaming little curly q’s into the air above us.

    “Hnh.” What else could I say?

  54. Ryan says:

    Ever day of the week I fill in blanks for writing prompts but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I ­­________.”

  55. smallster21 says:

    Every day of the week I stare at the chromium walls that encase me within the dull aura of this existence, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I get an injection of electrodes and fly up to the ceiling where white flowers sprout and luscious vines soothe my skin warming me with their soft, powdery scent.

    “Seriously Cinder! Are you high again!”

    Pulling my eyes from our apartment ceiling, I find my sister wearing her red chile pepper face, red and wrinkled from her brows to the pursing lips. She is standing within the fiery glow of the mobiterminal doors, which close behind her as she steps out, leaving her suitably seething within the red haze that lingers while the tunnel transporter cools.

    “Oh yea,” I smile trying not to giggle, but fail. “Ohhhh, just try it. It’s better than letting Dr. Victae handle your stress levels.” I lean against the walls and immediately jump from the heat.

    Vala clamps her hands onto her hips and says, “It happens to be very therapeutic beating up my ex every week. An hour in the Rehash Simulator lets me…”

    “Relive your past experiences, desensitization, blah, blah, blah. Not going to change the fact that Ash did…well, whatever you blame him for.”

    “Getting you mixed up with the Twitter Pods and those drugs! Almost sending the CBND down here to arrest you and have your brain neutralized!” Vala takes a deep breath as she snatches her name tag from the kitchen counter before continuing her scripted and well-rehearsed chider. “Do not leave the apartment. I can’t have you bouncing around the halls or making a scene down at the central caverns. They’ll immediately single you out, and read that your stress index levels are illegal.”

    Vala shoves me aside placing her hand upon the wall and reacts as I did to the heat penetrating the barriers, which keep us safe from the remnants of the super volcano flowing around our cities. It’s ironic how the source of our energy also keeps us all prisoners. Reports from the devices on the surface still read a consistent twenty feet density of ice. The CBND needed to back off; a lifetime underground is depressing enough without worrying if your stress levels are going to get you neutralized.

    “I’ll have maintenance come up tomorrow and fix the insulation vacuum and exterior pressure gauge. Look, I have to go to work.” Vala ties her collar and brushes her grey blouse off as she waits for the mobiterminal. “And, remember what I said. Stay put.”

    After a few moments, I peek inside the empty mobiterminal and contemplate upon the green buttons that pulsate upon the silver walls. Looking up at the ceiling of our apartment, I notice the flowers are gone, and before I can make up my mind on whether I should sneak out or not, the fiery haze ignites once more and the mobiterminal doors slide open.

    “What pleasant timing.” I perk up at the familiar face smirking at me. “Don’t suppose you’re carrying?”

    “No, even better.” Ash nods his head and beckons me forward. “Come on. Rave down at Smoke and Needles. Twitter Pods are promising a good dose of neuroinhibits.”

    I give Ash a quick peck on the cheek as I enter the mobiterminal, and then focus on a few deep breaths as I shake my arms out and wipe my forehead.

    “Don’t worry,” Ash scoffs, “the CBND are scanning the Quadrant Four complex right now. The central caverns are clear.”

  56. Amy says:

    Every day of the week, I live my life like any other hard working individual. I wake to the jarring alarm at three in the morning and make my way through the dark tunnels to the loading docks. It’s grueling work, loading and unloading the freighters that come in every couple of hours, but the pay is good and it keeps me honest. At least I’m not stuck topside, keeping watch for the banshees and sticking out against the desert sand like a Christmas tree in July. Those poor bastards get paid better than any of us, but they never make it to payday. The promise is what keeps them going; it keeps us all going.

    Sundays are different, though. On Sundays, the banshees never come out of their nests. The skies are quiet and we all come out of hiding and pretend, just for a day, that we’re real people at the top of the food chain, instead of a colony of puny ants fighting for survival. We emerge from our holes and welcome the blinding sun, rubbing the gloom from our eyes. There are no fires or wailing alarms to send us running and hiding. Just the sun, the sand, and peace.

    On Sundays, I head up early and look for her. She’s usually among the first to go topside. It’s not that she’s defiant, per say. She just can’t stand being stuck underground. It weighs heavy on her, more so than most. Before the strike, she told me she was captain of some grand ship on the water. Said she spent her days out on the Ocean, this massive body of water that stretched for miles and miles. I’ve never seen it, but they teach the kids about it down in the hothouse. That’s why the company asked her to drive a freighter. She had more piloting experience than the rest of these hacks combined.

    This morning, I woke feeling uneasy. Normally, Sunday mornings were full of promise, but today I couldn’t shake the edge that carried over from troubled dreams. I hurried up the ramp to the seal and saw Joe standing guard as usual. The hatch was still locked, so I must have been the first to the surface. He tipped his hat like he did every other Sunday and started cranking the wheel to open the hatch. The familiar hiss echoed its promise of fresh air and sunshine off the cavernous walls.

    “Hey Joe,” I said. “You seen Torri yet?”

    “Mornin’ Brooks,” he replied. There was something strange about the way he was dodging my eyes. “They went out on a raid last night. Don’t think they’ve made it back yet.”

    That was different. They never raided during the weekends. We had it so good on Sundays with no sign of the banshees, everybody thought it was best not to get greedy and piss ‘em off. I pushed through the hatch and my eyes were met with an assault of bright white and dense heat. After they adjusted, I scanned the flat expanse and noticed plumes of smoke striping the sky and pieces of shrapnel littering the sand.

    “What the…” was all I managed to get out before I heard the ear-splitting shriek behind me. I turned and stared right into the beady yellow eyes of one of them damn banshees. This is it, I thought. No sense denying it. I closed my eyes and pictured me and Torri on that grand ship of hers, just floating along with the tide.

  57. davidedson says:

    Everyday of the week, I sit and ponder ways to make my situation better. New business ideas constantly fly into my head, but then the bullets of reality shoot them down. I work a job day after day, which I love and am passionate about, the only issue is that it comes at lower salary then I need to get by. Looming school debt, bills, savings for the future, and of course taking care of my family are hard to do with what I have. I would not trade the joy I find in working here for a higher paying job doing something I loathe, but I have to find ways to make up the difference. That is what I do everyday of the week, but like I said earlier, reality is a tough enemy to fight. Time, money, and commitment, have all been the crippling factors in my pursuit of doing more. Each one claims a significant portion of my everyday life, and each one has a pretty tough stronghold, preventing my ambitions from penetrating their walls. I have to find a way to sneak in like the Trojan horse of Greek mythology, and ultimately conquer the things that hold me back from achieving my ambitions. Each day of the week, I find strength in new ways, strengths that send reinforcements to the front lines. Each day those reinforcements get knocked back by a barrage of discouraging canon fire, but the strengths are numerous, and full of fight, they keep pushing on and on without the fear of failure. At times these strengths may get weary and their numbers dwindle, but the fight goes on, and surprises even me at times.
    Finding the priorities over the comforts is another battle that goes on. I have obligations, I have needs, and then I have wants. Taking care of the first two is imperative to my overall success, but lets be honest here, the wants often take over the needs. The wants are like a Delilah to the Sampson that is my ambition. The sneak in with promise of fulfillment, and learn what makes you tick. Ten when you least expect it, they cut your strength away leaving a weak and defeated mind behind. The needs and obligations, always stand over the feeble being that is left, and demand that they be taken care of. Often times their consequence destroys what is left after the wants have taken their toll.
    But Sunday’s, Sunday’s are different. On Sunday’s I take time to relive my mind from the raging battles taking place. I take a moment to collect the casualties of ideas and bury them deep in the abyss of realities grave. A moment to breath and release the stress of the week, letting go of everything that beat me down emotionally. As Sundays begin to come to an end, my mind starts racing again. Deadlines approach like stealthy foot soldiers ready to strike, new ideas begin to form like battle plans of precision, and of course a new set of worries looms overhead like a thick cloud of smoke that refuses to dissipate.

    • Amy says:

      I got lost in your descriptions, which were good, if a little redundant, and was left wondering if anything really happened. Seems like a monologue comparing blue-collar work to fighting on the front lines and no real payoff for the reader.

  58. tmcasler says:

    I am in despair. Every day of the week it is so. A life of disarray. He has done this to me. That playful, knowing smile awoke something within my soul which had been too long dormant. Now it grows and becomes hungry, consuming me. I am on fire. Every day of the week it so. A life of desire. Oh, it is he who has made me this way. A shameful yearning so strong, surely others must feel the heat. He is out of reach and my being is lonely. What good is the company of anyone else? Every day of the accursed week is an agonizing count down. I live my life for Sunday’s, because they are different. I am in love. Every Sunday it is so. Yet, he never looks at me. I see him there, leading worship. Oh retched sinner such am I to have such a longing. Holy saint he surely be, still he placed this curse on me. Condemned to burn alive on earth.

  59. douglangille says:


    Every day of the week he wears masks, trading one mask for another. His true self always guarded and held apart from the world of men.

    He wakes up every morning as daylight breaks through the full window. The light is indirect, casting upon the shaded side of the house. It makes him safer. It makes the nightmares easier to bear.

    He never rises immediately, always taking stock of his physical condition. Where are the bruises? Where are the breaks? Where are the marks that would show? How would he explain them this time?

    Always the same questions. Always the same planning. All that changes is time. He’s getting older, getting tired.

    Disciplined exercise followed by the ritual of the first mask. Tape for his ribs and back. Bracing for his joints. Concealer for his hands and face. Scars new and old. Not broken. Not beaten.

    Business is doing well, which is good. He needs his rest more and more these days. Stimulants and painkillers help, but the addiction is swelling inside him. He knows this. He fights it. His mind is strong even as his body betrays him.

    When darkness falls, the civilized mask is cast aside. It’s no more than a façade of convenience, a contrivance to good functioning in good society. It’s a lie of course, but no more so than the mask he adopts for the night.

    The black of midnight brings its own sorrows and triumphs. He quietly takes guiltless joy from the process. Methodical research. Constant surveillance. Always listening. Taking action. Efficient and effective. Brutal and elegant.

    Hard-fisted vigilance employed above the rooftops, below the sewers and all that can be surveyed between.

    Thief. Fighter. Sleuth. Villain.

    Shadowy shades of black and gray with splashes of deep crimson.

    The nights are long and end at dawn’s promise. The grim battlefield remnants are someone else’s problem. A fitful sleep awaits him.

    But today is Sunday. Sundays are a little different. Even the darker elements of society tend to observe some absurdly arcane peace. It’s not that people are nicer. They aren’t. But the sins are smaller somehow.

    He let out a controlled breath as he reached the cavernous room deep below. He needed a break. Today there would be no need for masks.

    His two friends were already at the console reviewing the predictive models from the last few hours.

    “Anything brewing today, gentlemen?”

    “Nope”, Dick says hopefully. “It’s quiet”.

    “Perfect.” He turns to his oldest friend and mentor and touches him on the shoulder. The old man straightens, his aging back creaking. He patiently waits.

    “Alfred, call Gordon. Tell him we’re all going fishing. He already knows the spot. You’re coming too”.

    “Right away, Master Bruce”.

    Before Alfred can leave, he adds, “Ask him to round up Barbara as well. She’ll love this”.

    The wizened sage nods and quietly backs away to his task. Bruce turns to his ward, now certainly more man than boy.

    “Still quiet?”

    “Still quiet.”

    “This will be a good day.”

    And it was.

    • smallster21 says:

      Poor Batman; he’s getting old :( Great opening line. The mask bit caught my attention making me want to know whether your MC’s masks are literally or figuratively speaking. Finally figured out it was Batman at ‘shadowy shades of black and gray’. So, now we know what Batman does on his day off…goes fishing :)

      Though, I didn’t understand what his addiction was that you mentioned. Is it just the ‘guiltless joy’ from fighting? But, if so, then I don’t get ‘the nights are long and end at dawn’s promise’ which sounds like he doesn’t enjoy it and can’t wait for the night to end.

    • tmcasler says:

      Love that it is Batman. When I finally realized it I started laughing.

    • Kindra says:

      Oh, I love Batman! And I really enjoyed reading your piece.

    • Amy says:

      This was fun to read. I really love the description of “brutal and elegant”; what a precise way to sum up the enigma that is Batman. Very well done.

    • DMelde says:

      Great story. ‘Shadowy shades of black and gray with splashes of deep crimson.” -great line.

    • douglangille says:

      Thanks all. This is always a fun character to explore.

    • Mittens1326 says:

      Love the little clues in the beginning and the gradual reveal. Fun to read and very well done!

  60. sahar117 says:

    Every day of the week I go around telling myself I’m brave, I’m courageous, I’m daring for walking away from an arrange marriage…..but Sundays are different….Sundays I go around telling myself I’m selfish, thoughtless, irresponsible for I miss Sunday mornings with the kids!!!!!!!

    • smallster21 says:

      I’m assuming your post is true, so I will say don’t call yourself selfish for doing something you feel is right to improve the happiness in your life; you’re just taking care of your well-being, which is an important aspect of your health and you owe it to both your mind and body to do so. I applaud you for leaving an arranged marriage.

      Missing out on time with the kids may be hard, but even if you don’t get to see your kids all the time, they will be okay. My parents aren’t together, which doesn’t bother me; I’d rather see them separate and happy in the relationships they are in now than stay together and be miserable. Your kids want you to be happy, so take Sunday mornings for you time and do an activity that you enjoy :)

      Sometimes even when marriages aren’t arranged, people find they aren’t compatible. The occurrence of divorce, at least in the states, has gone down, since people are waiting longer to get married, which means they take more time to find if they can get along for a lifetime, depending on your religious aspect, even get along for an eternity…which is a very long time! Still don’t know yet if I can put up with my boyfriend’s shenanigans in the afterlife ;) j/k

  61. lsturpin1s says:

    Every day of the week I wake up. I wake up and feel numb. I wake up and look at this world around me and wonder if I really belong. I wonder if this is where I need to be, or if I need to be anywhere at all. Every day of the week I put a smile on my face and walk around this world like I am something, when in reality I truly am nothing. Sundays though are different. On Sundays I wake up and feel something, something strange and unusual to me, so much so I only let myself feel it once a week. I wake up on Sundays and feel free, I feel as if I can put all of this behind me and actually have a life. I wake up on Sundays and find myself wondering what it would be like if I put the same amount of energy into getting better as I do staying sick. I long to be free, to be one of those people who put a real smile on their face opposed to a fake plastered one that everyone knows is fake. I have tried for years to forget the thoughts, to stop the torment. No matter what I try or what I do, they never go away, they are always there and I fear they always will be. That one day a week though gives me so much hope. Hope that I am strong enough to get through this, so strong that one day I will be on the outside looking in. I fear that maybe it is too late. Maybe I am already too far gone and nothing can save me now, no one can save me now. I know what people think of me, I know they think I am useless and never going to amount to anything. I know that even though I try to fight the thoughts and although I try to ignore them, I know in reality they are right about me. I just want this to end. I want everyday to be like Sunday. I want to wake up everyday and feel that freedom, that small piece of hope that one day I will be free completely and want to keep living. I will put this depression behind me and run towards the sun with excitement and dreams of a real future. I have dreamed about this for years and maybe, just maybe it is time to follow through with that. I know I can do this. I know I can talk myself out of staying sick and talk myself into reaching for that freedom I know deep down inside that I deserve. I am strong, no matter what the thoughts try to make me believe. I am worthy of this life and I am worthy of the happiness that’s been dwindling, waiting for me to grasp ahold of it. Everyday I wake up and dream of making everyday a Sunday.

  62. Kerry Charlton says:


    My days during the week, repeat in an endless struggle for control as a center of activity between sub contractors, real estate developers, architects and the city development center.

    But on Sundays, riots of vivd hues and melodious music fill my day. An hour prior to first light, cardinals sing their enticements to their mates. My wife has learned to imitate their music and they sing back and forth to each other under a lush canopy of ancient oak trees and soaring cedar elms that had taken root in our yard many decades ago.

    Piercing rays of early light, dance through the trees, projecting images through our transom windows, settling their journey on the living room, slanted ceiling; moving down the walls as the sun rises from the horizon. Early shadows move so quickly you can watch them travel through the room. The sun’s rays rest on a mirrored sofa table and reverse course, traveling to the opposite wall of our living room.

    Outside, our north yard receives the most light. Passion vines and coral vines scoot up the side fence, traveling over the red-tip photinia hedges, whose new leaves shimmer a bright crimson in the morning light. Jumping into the trees, the vines join the morning glories that claimed first territory. Passion vines flaunt their white, five petal flying saucers poking in and out the romantic pink, cascading coral vines. Purple morning glories decry their label, flowering all day in royal trumpets of majesty. By summer’s end, the morning glories will have won their battle for turf.

    Mourning dove, with their haunting melodies, and white wing gather in our back yard along with sparrows, chickadee, and the mocking bird, the pride of Texas. Perky house wren, their tails pointing skyward, join finch in the afternoon along with the majestic blue jay, always demanding fiull reign and attention. A lazy hawk, having taken residence in the tallest elm, circles the sky above the back yard, causing squirrels to chatter their warnings.

    Entwined at the base of the oaks, variegated vinca cling to the ground. Their leaves of moss green, captured in edges of soft white, bring forth small trumpet flowers of electric blue and purple.

    Dusk brings soft light descending on multi colored hibiscus bushes residing in pots on the back deck. Shasta daisies boast vivid pinks, yellows, reds and white blooms from below while climbing, crimson bougainvillea ascend back walls of our house. A new dusty white with faint, purple center bougainvillea has joined them this year.

    Night approaches; jasmine vines release a sweet remembrance of high school corsages, cardinals reprive their morning concert and our night visitors arrive; stealthfully their hooves make impressions on soft grass in our front yard and the white tail settle carefully on the lawn, ever vigilant, their gazes watching the evening for us.

    • swatchcat says:

      Beautiful. I have this picture painted in my mind.

    • smallster21 says:

      More rainbows Kerry? Lol :) Nice display of beautiful colors. If this is a description of your yard, well I’m feckin’ jealous. Lots of great imagery and descriptions. You could shake this up and tear apart into a nice poem. It was invigorating as I read as good poetry on nature tends to do. It makes me want to go run around my house on this sunny morning.

      I like how you started the first paragraph with a brief glimpse at the stressors of life. It contrasted nicely with the rest of the piece. Makes you feel the importance of pausing on the beautiful and good things in life amidst all the bad.

    • DMelde says:

      Nice story, nice yard.

    • douglangille says:

      A nice place to chill out and hang. Very good.

      • Kerry Charlton says:

        Thanks to all of you for the read and the nice comments. It is my yard. My next story will center around 15 years of heat stress, wasp stings, mosquite swarms, and invasive weeds we’ve been through, creating it. Thanks again. Kerry

  63. Kafi Zola says:

    Every day of the week before getting out of bed, I try to remember to thank the Lord for another day He has let me see. I say to myself and sometimes out loud, “this is the day that the Lord has made, I will rejoice and be glad in it.” Every day before getting out of bed, I mentally prepare myself for another workday. My assignments are no longer as challenging as they once were so every day of the week it is extremely difficult to face the workday. But Sundays are different. On Sundays, I do not have to get up as early. I do not have to think about work and how I am going to navigate another workday. On Sundays I do not have get up early. I can take a bath later in the day. I do not have to dash out of the house by a certain time to catch a bus that will get me to work by 7:30. On Sundays, I can choose to do whatever I want to do and I have the option of doing nothing. This is how Sundays are different for me.

  64. I am Freeman says:

    Every day of the week I am hyper vigilant, keeping guard against that part of me that would lash out and hurt others. Every day of the week I center myself before heading out into the community where vulnerable people live and interact. Every day of the week I look the other way, avoid contact with the innocent ones that can be easily harmed, mistreated or abused in one form or another. Every week I load a bag of bananas in the car so I can give them to the homeless people begging for food at the street corners, every day of the week I choose bananas because most of the homeless people don’t have enough teeth to eat hard fruit, such as apples, or even peaches. Every day of the week I am the guardian of the innocent, the God I Am.
    God, good orderly direction, the inner Self, the creative power of the universe, the universe I see from my own perspective, drawn from my own experiences that have conditioned me to respond in a certain way. Me? Who is me. Every day of the week I question this. I am not my thoughts, I am not my experiences, and I am not my feelings. Who am “I”? I am that part of me that watches the events unfold around and through me. “I” am that part of me that is detached from all thought, feeling, possession, event, and outcome. I am that creative force behind all that is. I am you, you are me, One.
    Every day of the week I start my day with reading yoga lessons, centering myself and saying the mantras that help purify the mind. I am not the mind. What needs to be purified? If I am God, then whey is purification needed. Ahh, the ubiquitous question that has plagued humankind throughout all time. What must be purified? The mind, intellect, and conditioning, every day of the week I work on purifying these elements as they make up the ego. The ego is nothing more than a ghost in the machine, as it were. It does not exist accept in its own ‘mind’. What is purified? The mind, intellect and conditioning; purified in the sense of being brought under submission so the True Self can be seen. Look to that space between thoughts. That is where one may find the Self, God, Devine Consciousness. Every day of the week I seek to purify the mind so I may tap into this ever abundant source of Love. This all pervasive entity that exists equally in each and every thing; be it animated with the breath of life or not. For all is a construct of the mind. Every day of the week I question, meditate and protect.
    Above all I protect those I could harm from that part of me that would harm them. Every day of the week, but Sunday,Sundays are different because I stay home.

    • smallster21 says:

      Readers don’t like writers who preach at them. That is why I think Plato so cleverly utilized the dialogue form for his philosophical rantings. And, in this way, he is giving us a story with characters for entertainment and an argument between differing minds, makes it for more interesting reading. Just a suggestion to try out, since the narrator has a long philosophical monologue going on here :)

  65. Bianchi Cat says:

    Lately, the day before I go is always stressful. Sometimes, in the deepest parts of my soul I hope not to come back. Yet, I still do though and a week later I’ll have to go through it all again. It’s an odd thing hoping for death. Taboo. Sinful. Selfish. At my age, I don’t care about any of those labels any more.
    It all started when I was in my forties. Even to this day I still don’t know what started it or why it happens. Over fifty years later one might think I would have solved it by now. My wife and I tried. We studied the phenomena, filmed me leaving and returning, kept detailed journals and even did experiments to determine changes in time or history. As every week became consistent, it became an annoyance and finally just a part of our lives. We never traveled to be with friends or family if the trip involved being with them on a Sunday. I didn’t want her to have to lie or try to explain where I was and why I was gone. That’s all in the past now.
    The rules, if you can call them that, are pretty simple. The year never changes. My age is always the same, 25. Everyone in my life that year, the apartment we lived in, my job and even our pets are the same. The day of that year is always random. It could be Christmas Eve or it could be in the middle of April. Nothing I do on that day affects any part of what will happen in the normal timeline we all know. The only thing that is different is me. I bring to my 25 year old self everything I know in the present. I go into each Sunday knowing what I did the day, a week, even the Sunday before. It’s that knowledge that is the best and the worst of it all.
    It is the contrast in both wisdom and maturity that causes the most disruption when I return and reminds me of how much I lacked each of them all those years ago. I’m now well past those Golden Years and it’s shocking to look in the mirror from Sunday to Monday. The hardest part however, is seeing my wife. She left this world several years ago. The difficulty is not in my arrival and looking at her with younger eyes; it is knowing I have such little time to spend in her presence only to return to a life without her. I can show her the man I will become even as he is taken away a day later. By then, she will have forgotten. The only blessing is that in 6 days, I get to see her again.
    Every day of the week I am in the present, old and today’s my actual age, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I am 25 again.

    • smallster21 says:

      Is it Groundhog Day? What is going on here? You start out with saying your narrator is involved in some Taboo ritual. Still don’t understand what it is. Is the narrator a time traveler who disappears every Sunday and reappears like he just returned from the fountain of youth? Then you start talking about this event occurring at random days during the year, so that confuses me more.

      …people are being very philosophical this week; it is hurting my brain.

      • Bianchi Cat says:

        Not really sure about the Groundhog reference, never saw the movie. The narrator does not mention he’s involved in a Taboo ritual so I don’t know where you got that? Thank for reading though, appreciate it.

        • smallster21 says:

          As I read your story a few more times, I eventually understood what was going on. As a reader, I don’t like having to do that. I’ve wanted to clarify my confusion with your story, and I am just one reader, so take it or leave it. I do think your story has an interesting plot within it.

          Where did I get this taboo interpretation? The opening lines tell me the MC is involved in something or something is happening to him not of the norm. He even explicitly states he wishes for death and how ‘taboo’,’ sinful’ and ‘selfish’ it is, so my belief that he is involved in some abnormal practice is strengthened by this pronouncement, because the definition of taboo is something prohibited by society. [I know now you simply meant his thoughts on death are taboo. You paused and placed emphasis on this, so that tripped me up. That is where I was led to believe he was into something abnormal.]

          Also, about the time travel, the sci-fi genre has its own conventions readers expect. I think this was part of my confusion with your story as it doesn’t adhere to some of these elements. He says his age is always the same, 25. When he travels back in time, your MC’s actual corporeal body is leaving the present (as you said they take pictures recording the occurrence) and when he shows up in the past, he is 25. But, your present MC existing in the past wouldn’t eliminate the existence of his past self, so do you have two 25 year old MCs existing within the same year in the past? Or, is the present MC traveling in a non-corporeal form and possessing his past 25 year old self? I think the story could benefit from some clarification here.

          As Amy suggested, a scene fleshed out would be nice, and it would help present the plot and your time travel elements. I do feel variations on genre conventions are always interesting to read and would encourage the development of this story.

          And, I suggest Groundhog Day. It’s a classic. :) Not so much actual time travel, more like Bill Murray reliving the same day over and over and over and over…

          • Bianchi Cat says:

            Thank you Smallster21. I do appreciate the feedback. This prompt is only my fifth one to do and post, so any critique is welcome and not just for this post but for any in the future. In fact, if you have time or are interested, I also posted on: The Missing Shoe, Terrorist Attack, The Boat and the first one I tried was Your Uncle’s Will (back on July 8, 2011). Of course that goes for anyone else reading this not just Smallster21.
            You make a lot of valid points, like the fact that as a reader you don’t want to have to keep re-reading something to simply understand it. I did intend to go outside of any conventional time travel theme so it’s nice to hear that as a reader you want more development.
            I’m finding that cramming a story into 500 words can be really difficult. I’ve tried with the other four prompts to either 1) wrap it up by the end or 2) try to “hook” the reader into wanting more (which is was my secondary goal of this prompt; the primary was just to have something readable in 500 words.) I’m hoping with practice this will get a little easier…please say “yes”.
            I’ll keep working with the story and try to really develop it. I’m thinking now about trying to edit it with the suggestions in mind and re-posting it.
            Thanks again, I do appreciate it.

    • Amy says:

      Original idea, but it would have been nice to experience the narrator’s time travel as it happens in a scene, rather than just a reflection of it.

  66. assaultymcnulty says:

    Every day of the week I eat healthy except on Sundays. Sundays, I indulge. During the week I start my day with a small bowl of high fiber, low sugar cereal with skim milk. I drink a small glass of OJ full of pulp the more pulp the better chance your body has of absorbing the nutrients. Then I have my second course, fresh fruit, berries in yogurt or perhaps some cold melon. Breakfast is the most important meal so I eat til’ I’m good and full. I make sure to stay on schedule and eat precisely on time and by the time noon comes around I start on my turkey sandwich with lettuce tomato pickle and a dab of brown mustard either in a wheat wrap or a nice multigrain bread. Sometimes I spread a little garlic hummus on and a dab of low fat cream cheese. Are you hungry yet? Delish eh? I eat a red delicious apple at 2 pm it’s a great stomach neutralizer and kills heart burn naturally. An Apple a day….I eat dinner between 5 and 5:30 never later. It’s the usual, grilled chicken, slightly seasoned with rice and steamed veggies. Summer squash is my Fav. but green beans are delish too. Asparagus is great too but tastes better grilled. Sunday’s are entirely different. I start with three eggs over easy, seasoned nicely, salt, pepper. I shred on some fresh Vermont sharp cheddar and toss some toast, buttered generously, onto my plate. I grill up some bacon to a fine crisp and I wash it all down with a cup of Colombian Joe. Two splenda and light cream make a perfect combination for rich but smooth taste. I skip lunch and I snack lightly because we eat dinner at 3:30 on Sunday and we don’t stop until 6. This past Sunday I started with an appetizer I that was out of this world. I made fried chicken tenders with a spicy peanut sauce dip. Mmm sounds delish eh? Then I took some sweet Italian sausage from the local meat cutter and slowly fried them in the pan until they were ready to pop. I tossed in some fresh garlic and got my red sauce going. Stirring constantly… it’s the secret you know, burns off the acid. When the sauce was ready I added some light cream and a dab or two of white wine followed by a splash of olive oil. My linguine cooked up al dente. I added the garlic and sausage to the red cream sauce, some fresh oregano and garlic bread made from scratch and served it over linguine. Bellissimo!! We finished off the night with a homemade chocolate pudding pie with homemade whip cream. It was a family affair, I couldn’t have done it alone. In this house, we love food and we wait all week to indulge and be bad.

  67. DMelde says:

    Every day of the week I do things twice.
    Every day of the week I do things twice.
    But Sundays are different.
    On Sundays, I only do things once.

  68. I am Freeman says:

    The traffic is heavy as I head toward work, my shoulders ache as the arms fall asleep from having to carry such a heavy load. The nerves tingle like shards of glass sprinkling from a busted sky scrapers window as the body falls to the…


    The tires squall as I slam on the brakes, the putrid smell of burnt rubber fills the cab of my ’89 Ford Ranger.

    The grass is slick as the truck bounces out across the median, …

    “You son of a bitch…” The angry man is flipping me off, eyes red, blood shot from fear.

    “Hey, I’m the one that had to dodge your car…or be rear ended by the man in the huge SUV…” I thought to myself.
    “Omm doom durga ya namaha…ommm doom durga ya namaha….” My litany of chanting to keep myself and all others safe begins.

    Every day of the week I say this mantra. Accept on Sundays, on Sunday I primarily say Om Namah Shiviaya. This mantra help purify the mind, leads to enlightenment, and is simply saying I bow to the God within me.

    Namaste, walk in peace, be the light, stay centered, focus on Love, love is God, TAG-IT= Thou Art God Infinitely Transforming.

    The mind continues its diatribe as I continue gently nudging it back into submission.

    Everyday of the week I meditate saying mantras when I drive an hour to school, accept on Sundays, On Sundays I don’t drive and meditate all the same.

  69. frankd1100 says:

    Every day of the week I puke just before we head out on patrol. My company is working a six week mission out of a forward operating base, (FOB), in the mountains of Afghanistan. The FOB is small, too exposed and with just twenty of us inside, is vulnerable to snipers and RPGs. But each day after we’ve moved out on a predawn patrol, I long for the sandbagged walls that protect my thin layer of skin from bullets and shrapnel.

    The goal of these small bases erected on the enemies home turf, a helicopter ride from relief units at the main, highly fortified headquarters camp, is to locate and engage the enemy. This happens when the enemy ambushes us. They don’t hit us on every patrol but every time they hit us, when the firing stops, my hands shake and my teeth chatter as if I’d been swimming the North Atlantic in January. Other guys get the shakes too, but nobody cares as long as we’re squared away when it’s go time.

    I don’t think of Donna when I’m out there because I’m focused on staying alive and keeping my troopers alive and in one piece. We’ve become pretty good at moving over the rocky terrain without making any noise and listening at the same time for the slightest sound that might warn us of a threat. Tommy O’Brien is always up front with me because we all think he has the ears of a dog meaning, he hears sounds long before the rest of us and he can locate where they’re coming from. It’s intense from the moment we set out, conscious of each single step, a noise out of place, a flash of movement ahead, changes in visibility when a cloud blocks the sun, or visualizing fields of fire when approaching a configuration of rocks and trees that we’d pick for an ambush.

    When we get back to the FOB I put every trooper, those who were on the parol and those who held the base, on the wall in fighting mode as if we were readying for an enemy assault in force. It’s like a power play in hockey. Four skaters successfully defend against a power play goal and within a minute of being at full strength, they’re scored on. It’s the transition. It causes a relaxation, a dropping of the guard, and the enemy has taken advantage of it in the past, but not with us because we expect it.

    When I do finally get to my bunk, I wrap myself in my old sleeping bag with my boots on. Just as the stress level drops a notch, I start to think of Donna and I know I won’t sleep. No matter how I look at it, it seems like I talked her into marrying me before I deployed. I doubt myself more as each day passes. But, Sundays are different. On Sundays I get her letters without fail, and I’m good for another week.

  70. pjdxxxwa says:

    “Ever day of the week I write, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I think about what and how I wrote.”

  71. randi100 says:

    Every day of the week I run the business. I put on my suit, I carry my briefcase. I crunch the numbers. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday. I work and work and work some more. Why do I work so hard? That’s what my parents told me to do as a child. “When you grow up, you work and work some more.” “That’s what’s important” they said. I listened. What else could I do? That’s all I know. So, I went to college, got a job, eventually took over the family business, so I work. But, Sundays are different. On Sundays I do what I want. I get up and take the longest, hottest bubble bath. The smell of lavender fills my tiny bathroom for hours. I get dressed. Not in that grey business suit that I wear to work. Oh heck no. I wear the tightest red dress, the most amazing stiletto heels, and my best jewelry. My nails are painted, my hair is perfect. The dark, round sunglasses just top it all off. Dressing like this makes me feel amazing, it almost makes up for the fact that I have to wear those dark dreary suits on the other six days of the week. I head to the mall on Sundays and I shop and shop. It all makes me feel so pretty and special, and oddly loved. I feel like I am home at the mall. Sunday is my special day. The perfect day where I can be me. The best part? The best part is that the rest of the guys are home watching football, so I know I won’t run into them…..
    If they only knew……

  72. danceswithhorses says:

    Every day of the week, I smile. My husband comes home to a kiss on the cheek and supper bubbling on the stove. My children troop in from school and tell me about their day, and show me straight As and the occasional B. On every day of the week, I am a dutiful wife and mother.
    But on Sundays, when my husband takes the kids out, to give me some “alone time,” as he puts it, I let my mind wander down a different path. What if I’d never agreed to settle down in this little clapboard house in this small town? If I’d seen the world, as I’d once longed to?
    On every day of the week but Sunday, I’m content…but on Sundays I dream.

    • frankd1100 says:

      I think she has lots of company. The human condition described clearly and succinctly. Well written, in my humble opinion…

    • smallster21 says:

      Oh Lord, the occasional B! Nooooo! Lol, j/k :)

      I like the narrator, the dreamer. Maybe, the narrator could turn impulsive and buy a plane ticket to an exotic country. I did that once. I stopped wandering if I’d have time or enough money, and just went online and pushed round trip ticket to halfway around the world! And, I did not regret it.

    • DMelde says:

      Ah, the what-if. Nice dream.

  73. Dud says:

    Every day of the week, I unassumingly enjoy the monotony; yes, nodding at familiar faces, walking similar paths, performing menial tasks that all too rarely become important ones feels safe; safety is sometimes underrated, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I embrace change while remaining true to the spirit of the prior week. Familiar faces are enjoyable as I revel in my brunch on the river; however, maybe I’ll engage in some conversation with the unknown, yet funny and personable woman placing my delicious egg sandwich and incredible bloody mary in front of me. Sunday theater? A gratifying, serene change of pace. A different route? Perhaps, the long route just because it’s there. Inside the theater’s lobby, I’ll remain for an extra minute or two enjoying the ambiance in lieu of the immediate hustling towards seat 15D. Sundays are new. Sundays are enhancers. It’s that simple and often times, simple is agreeable.

    • smallster21 says:

      You could expand on the experiences that your narrator briefly describes. Show not tell adage. Show how the waitress is ‘funny and personable’, describe the ambiance of the theater, because it makes it hard to picture with no description.

  74. JustAPerson says:

    Every day of the week I’m always happy and cheerful, but Sundays are different. On Sundays I can’t get the gnawing guilt out of my gut. The guilt of a murder. It was accidental of course, but I doubt I can be pardoned for saying it was an honest mistake.
    It happened a year ago.
    My cousin and I were going to the zoo. We had a great time, so great that we couldn’t stop grinning like idiots.
    I have never enjoyed myself more. On the way home we talked and joked, a serene scene.
    Then a group of men approached us. They smelled strongly of alcohol, one could assume that they had more than a couple of drinks.
    My cousin was calm and told me to walk the other direction. He turned around and started moving away from the group.I ran to catch up with him.
    And that’s when the gun went off. I saw one of the men pointing a gun in my direction. If it wasn’t for the alcohol in his body causing the lack of hand-eye coordination, I don’t think I would’ve survived. I ran as fast as I could while the other men cheered and whooped. The man with the gun began running towards us. He stumbled across the street and followed us. The man held up the gun and I panicked. I grabbed my cousin’s shoulder and pulled him back too hard, he tripped and fell. He hit his head hard on the pavement. I didn’t even look to see what happened. All I heard was a gunshot and I kept sprinting away. The next day my aunt came over, she was a wreck. My mom comforted her and the police arrived. They wanted to question me about how my cousin died. I told them the whole story except for the part where I made my cousin fall. I just told the police that he tripped on a can lying around somewhere. My aunt cried and my dad came up to me and patted my shoulder. I started crying too. I looked up on the clock. 11:21, an hour past my bedtime on a Sunday.
    Now every Sunday, I stay awake looking at the clock. I shake underneath the sheets of my bed.. The guilt eats away everything about me and it demands more. The clock now reads 11:21. I can’t bear hiding this much longer. I jump from my bed and run into my parents room. They ask my what’s the matter. I don’t stop the tears descent down my face. I tell my parents,
    “I killed him last year.”
    Their eyes widen and look for any sign that I’m lying.
    I killed him.

    • smallster21 says:

      Its Shane fending off the zombies by shooting Otis! Though unlike Shane, your MC actually has a conscious. You made his anguish feel real. Intrigued me at the beginning with promise of a murder. It’d be nice to see the action fleshed out more maybe with some dialogue to change things up with the narrative. I wouldn’t mention the zoo, unless you are going to take us there and show what the character’s relationship and personalty is like pre-murder, which actually would be good to add.

      • JustAPerson says:

        Ok thanks for the input, I’ll try to add more significance to the zoo.

        • smallster21 says:

          It’s just a suggestion. Go with it if you feel like it would fit well with your story. Doesn’t necessarily need to be a zoo, I just meant focusing on the character’s emotional development and showing his relationship with his cousin before the murder, which could provide more insight into how he is impacted by what happened.

  75. csearly says:

    Every day of the week I work, but Sundays are different. On Sundays, I relax with my family. My work days are long and my Sundays are short. Sometimes I feel all I do is work. Then work some more. I work hard. Really hard. I’ve been late to work once in 2 years and I am constantly getting high approval from the customers I help. But even with that, the only thing that keeps me going is my wife and daughter and the thought of providing for them.
    I constantly pray for change in my life; change for the better, change that I can spend more time with my family and more time home.
    “Early, can I talk to you in my office for a moment?” my boss says. I take a deep breath. I just walked into the door and I knew I was going to get reamed by my boss. Great, another great start to my week. Another great start to an already terrible Monday.
    “Yeah, sure.” I say with a smile on my face. It’s hard to force that kind of smile at 7 A.M. on a Monday but I continue to try my best to work hard and be a great employee. I sit in the hard brown chair in front of Grant’s desk. “How are you?” I ask trying to relieve some tension I feel in my body.
    “Good, thank you.” He responded. “I needed to talk to you about your future employment with this company.” My mind is racing. Am I being let go? Did I do something wrong? My family flashes in the front of my mind with sad expressions. Please don’t let this be what I feel it is, I though.
    “Okay,” I try to say nonchalantly.
    “How long do you plan on being here?”
    “Well this job started as a temporary job, until I found other work,” I started. “But, now I love it here. I want to be here for a while longer.”
    “How long is ‘a while’?” he asks.
    “I guess it depends on if I can move up in the company.” I said. Which was true, I really wanted to move up I truly do love this company.
    “That is understandable.” Grant paused. “I wanted to hear your thoughts on shadowing me as the general manager. Then taking my position after a few months test or trial you could say.” I’m sure he saw the excitement light up on my face. This is the position I have been shooting for since I started here at this company. I had no words, my thoughts were everywhere and I couldn’t think a thing to say. “Well,” he said. “What do you say?”
    “I’m sorry,” I started. “Yes, yes, I would love to.” My family flashed again to the front of my mind. This time their faces were as lit up as mine was.

  76. Dutchguy says:

    Every day of the week I tell the rosebud eating gorilla, who lives in my garden, to brush his teeth since he smells like dead flowers. But Sundays are different. On Sundays I always come to realize that I again spent the entire week living within a trancelike state, which my vacuum cleaning tiger psychiatrist says is a symptom of the tissue damage to the part of my brain where fantasy is made.

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