The Trouble With Thursday
“There’s something wrong with Thursday,” Lissa whispered, “it isn’t creeping around in the usual manner.”
They stood and observed to see if she was right.
Thursday looked up at them, nonplussed. There was something quietly stormy and grey about it, in spite of the ebullient sunrise and shouting birds.
“I could eat them,” it thought, half contemplating the idea. But that would be messy, and take a bit of effort. Thursday didn’t like effort. It depended instead on the length and breadth of its bones, on the incalculable weight of its very presence to lodge in everyone’s consciousness. It liked that.
Friday peeked in from around the corner, wearing face paint and pointy shoes and about a million colorful feathers.
“Oh, just poke it with a stick,” Friday said. “Even if it starts humming like a nest of bees, it doesn’t really mean anything. That’s the trouble with Thursday, isn’t it?”
“What?” Lissa asked, nonchalantly.
“It just sits there and gets in the way.” Friday intoned with a wink and a crimson, lipsticked kiss, and then turned and wandered back out the door, trailing a rainbow of sequins and rhinestones after.
“Hmph.” Thursday grumbled. “Friday is always so full of itself, don’t you think?”