I napped until the doorbell roused me from my slumber. Rays of sunlight bled into my room and stung my eyes as I rolled out of bed. When I answered the door, no one was there; they left a sodden cardboard box on my stoop with no return address filled with cigarette butts and Polaroid pictures of me taken from outside my window. I yawned and went back to napping.
Sunspot? Hell yeah! Hooman’s lap? *plop* Warm lamp? Meeeoooowwww!! Waking up only to move to the next spot or yell for food! Lazy days are my specialty. They are the best of days. Hoomans zoom around making me dizzy. Silly, they are. They should try my schedule: nap, snack, nap, cuddle, nap, then sleep. Life’s better slow–you hoomans can learn from us, you know. Now excuse me, it’s nap time.
On lazy days, time was always slow, like something that melts or distorts, stretching out. Like her thoughts. They wouldn't let go, they were like a glue, or something slimy. It's always like that, with everyone. You can only feel time when you laugh, cry or think.
Time and thought, two inseparable companions on lazy days. They only part on the day of death, but only for those who die.
She wakes early. A watery sun peeks through the curtains. She listens to the rhythmical breathing of her husband and allows her mind to roam wondering what she has to do today. She smiles into the dark of the bedroom, turns on to her side facing away from the window. There is nothing that has to be done today but eat, drink, read and lounge about. A perfect lazy Sunday.
Chuck sat on the embankment and watched the crowded morning train blow by. He read his book in the sunlight. Winds whistled. Pages grew wings. Characters rose and fell with each warmly welcomed word.
Eight hours later he looked up as the train made its daily return deposit at the station.
“Is it that time already?” he asked, pocketing his book, now nearly pageless. “I need more days like this.”
A lazy day held hostage in a tumbleweed daydream. A Sunday drizzle smudging watercolor scenes; the pigments pour like waterfalls, and pools of light ripple, caressed by an electric Northwind. I held my breath for as long as I could, couldn't breathe 'till you returned. I saw your smile on strangers' faces. I saw your eyes on a child under a tiny pink umbrella. We're lost in this lazy day.
The life raft bobs gently. Sea, dead calm. Overcast sky but searing heat. Nothing else but endless water. Delirium whispers it's evil to Anderson but he fights.
Worse for Talbot. “Lazy Day.” He grabs Anderson’s arm, eyes impossibly wide, nodding.
“Wha..?”
“Lazy Day. Hazy, lazy day.”
Anderson blinks dull eyes.
“Gonna look around down there.” Talbot rolls over the side.
“Nap Time”
I napped until the doorbell roused me from my slumber. Rays of sunlight bled into my room and stung my eyes as I rolled out of bed. When I answered the door, no one was there; they left a sodden cardboard box on my stoop with no return address filled with cigarette butts and Polaroid pictures of me taken from outside my window. I yawned and went back to napping.
Sunspot? Hell yeah! Hooman’s lap? *plop* Warm lamp? Meeeoooowwww!! Waking up only to move to the next spot or yell for food! Lazy days are my specialty. They are the best of days. Hoomans zoom around making me dizzy. Silly, they are. They should try my schedule: nap, snack, nap, cuddle, nap, then sleep. Life’s better slow–you hoomans can learn from us, you know. Now excuse me, it’s nap time.
Thank you, Jay . And thanks for the kind words . I still dream that we will be together and he is waiting for me when the time comes. Love never dies.
My 70 words of Lazy Day
__________________________
On lazy days, time was always slow, like something that melts or distorts, stretching out. Like her thoughts. They wouldn't let go, they were like a glue, or something slimy. It's always like that, with everyone. You can only feel time when you laugh, cry or think.
Time and thought, two inseparable companions on lazy days. They only part on the day of death, but only for those who die.
Lazy Day 70mg
She wakes early. A watery sun peeks through the curtains. She listens to the rhythmical breathing of her husband and allows her mind to roam wondering what she has to do today. She smiles into the dark of the bedroom, turns on to her side facing away from the window. There is nothing that has to be done today but eat, drink, read and lounge about. A perfect lazy Sunday.
I feel very similar to you, Miguel, when people moan about not being able to do anything. Great prompt. Great flash
“Not doing it” said the Day grumpily.
“You’ve got to do it” said the Shortest Day”. “I have to, what makes you so special?”
“Because I’m a special day” said the Day. “People say that – oh, what a special day that was. Besides, I’m too tired. Someone else can do it”.
“Tired?” said the Longest Day. “Days like you don’t know the meaning of tired! You’re just a Lazy Day!”
Chuck sat on the embankment and watched the crowded morning train blow by. He read his book in the sunlight. Winds whistled. Pages grew wings. Characters rose and fell with each warmly welcomed word.
Eight hours later he looked up as the train made its daily return deposit at the station.
“Is it that time already?” he asked, pocketing his book, now nearly pageless. “I need more days like this.”
A lazy day held hostage in a tumbleweed daydream. A Sunday drizzle smudging watercolor scenes; the pigments pour like waterfalls, and pools of light ripple, caressed by an electric Northwind. I held my breath for as long as I could, couldn't breathe 'till you returned. I saw your smile on strangers' faces. I saw your eyes on a child under a tiny pink umbrella. We're lost in this lazy day.
Beautiful
Miguel, I really wanted to write something today, but...
If this means you're having a Lazy Day I 100% support that.
Prompt: Lazy Day / Word Count 70
The life raft bobs gently. Sea, dead calm. Overcast sky but searing heat. Nothing else but endless water. Delirium whispers it's evil to Anderson but he fights.
Worse for Talbot. “Lazy Day.” He grabs Anderson’s arm, eyes impossibly wide, nodding.
“Wha..?”
“Lazy Day. Hazy, lazy day.”
Anderson blinks dull eyes.
“Gonna look around down there.” Talbot rolls over the side.
Far too slow, Anderson reaches for him.
The sea swallows.
So sad. Loved how you took the prompt and did this awesome twist
Ya'll did amazing with your stories. Excellent writing.
I dreamed of a lazy day—blankets, Netflix, and nothing to do.
But laundry piled up, emails buzzed, and my dogs whined for a walk.
"Tomorrow," I sighed, tossing another load in.
The fridge hummed empty; groceries loomed.
My phone chimed—another deadline.
I collapsed on the couch, exhausted, as the sun set.
Maybe next Sunday, I thought, scrolling through my endless to-do list.
The dream would wait.
Again.
70 mg of Lazy Day
🦥
They call it lazy.
I undress my armor
in steam,
exhale the email ghosts.
📧
Heat. Cold. Heat.
A ritual. A return.
🧖🏻♀️
Someone kneads my back
like they’re decoding a map
no GPS could read.
💆
My cells remember silence.
I sweat out calendars,
rinse off urgency,
forget the shape of should.
📆
What did I come into this room for?
To become
again.
🛀
Lazy day,
they say.
I say—beginning, remembering, softening, home.
🏖️
"exhale email ghosts" "sweat out calendars" Love those phrases
Thank you, Diane
Great story, Miguel! I have exactly the same sentiment about rainy-day excuses!
I love rainy days mate ☔️
70mg of Lazy Day: Too-old-for-this-sh*t Syndrome
I caught the disease from one of my friends.
We blamed it on age initially, but in truth, it’s contagious.
It’s the kids’ fault, we agree—all those years standing on sidelines or sitting on moist benches by the pool.
No wonder we’re housebound, lying about fictional obligations just so we can enjoy a lazy day at home for once.
None of us are in a rush for a cure.