Tuesday For Morrie Novels & Stories

“You have been weird, Dale. Do you know that? And I just can’t figure out what is wrong.” “You are getting close to fighting the reaper,” Dale responds, looking at everything but me. “Today is Monday, and the day could be Tuesday for all we know.” “Yes!” I retort, trying to demonstrate the situation with my hands, “Which is a great thing, I don’t see how that will worry you.” Dale sighs, proceeding to avoid my eyes even further, “To me, that’s doomsday.”

Amelia pov I found out on a Tuesday. Not that the day of the week carries any particular significance in matters like this — the body does not consult the calendar before making its announcements — but I remember it was a Tuesday because I had been scheduled to work with Mara that morning and I had woken up unable to move from the edge of the bed for twenty minutes, which had never happened before, and the quality of the stillness I was holding was different from the stillness of exhaustion or illness. It was the stillness of a body that knows something before its owner does.

POV: Red I choose Tuesday. Not for any special reason, just that it's a blank slate. No Monday supply deliveries to worry about, no end-of-week bullshit. It's a day for maintenance. For the arrangement. I've been building toward this specific Tuesday for two weeks. I've timed it, watched it, and I know I have a six-minute window. Give or take ninety seconds.

The birthday was a Tuesday. Of course it was. She had known for twenty-four years that the arrival would be on a Tuesday. The second life began on a Tuesday in the lecture hall. The significant things have arrived on Tuesdays since before she understood the pattern. Forty-five arriving on a Tuesday was not a surprise. It was confirmation.

The world should end on a Monday. There’s something honest about that. Brutal, yes, but clean. A Monday already has the emotional texture of damp socks and unpaid bills, so adding zombies feels less like a cosmic betrayal and more like management escalating a complaint. Unfortunately, the world chooses Thursday at 6:17 p.m., while Maya Rodriguez is standing barefoot in her kitchen, trying to decide whether expired sour cream is a negotiable concept. “It smells fine,” Dex says from behind her.

The divorce papers arrived on a Tuesday. I know it was a Tuesday because I had been making coffee — the good kind, the kind that takes twelve minutes in the pour-over and fills the whole kitchen with something warm and real — and I remember thinking that Tuesdays did not deserve good coffee. Tuesdays were for instant. Tuesdays were for surviving. Then the courier knocked, and Tuesdays became something else entirely.

. August 21st, 2011: Sunday Day 7 (Finale) ~~~~~~~~~~ The world was still dewy and moist around him from the thunderstorm the night before. Fog billowed up from the roads as the morning sun started to heat the face of the deep, dark blacktop that caused any residual water to vapourize. Tony lit up and took a drag from his cigarette as he waited for his brain to load. Everyone else was still asleep, since it was only six o'clock, but he wanted to get a head start on the day. There wasn't much they had to do to pack. He more so wanted to make sure he was showered and ready so they had time to do things on the last day they were there.

Jules' POV It happened on a Tuesday. Not because Tuesday was significant. Not because anything particular had occurred to tip the scale, no watershed moment, no grand gesture. It happened on a Tuesday because I woke up and lay in my bed in the early gray light listening to Eli moving around in his room — that particular small-person shuffling, the thud of feet hitting the floor, the sound of the top drawer being investigated for the shirt he had decided he wanted — and I thought about the fact that Adam would be here in two hours, and instead of the complicated layering of feeling that thought had produced for weeks — the careful hope tamped down under equal and opposite caution — I just tho

Chris POV I found out on a Tuesday. Not that the day mattered. Days had stopped mattering in the way they used to matter — as markers, as deadlines, as the framework around which operations were planned and executed. In the east wing suite days were simply the unit of measurement between one of Matt's evenings and the next. Tuesday was the same as Thursday was the same as Sunday, distinguished only by the quality of the light and which book I was on. I was on the fifth book when the housekeeper came in with the breakfast tray and the small remote control she sometimes left when Matt had — I assumed — indicated it was permitted. She set the tray on the table and the remote beside it and left

"Whatever Devon does. Whatever comes after Devon. I am not going anywhere and I need you to know that without me having to find five different ways to say it." He looked at me for a long time across that table. Something moved across his face and stayed there for one full honest moment ... raw and unguarded and completely real ... before he filed it away again carefully behind those dark eyes of his. "Tuesday." He said finally. Voice steady. "You have Marcus by Tuesday." "Tuesday morning." I said. The corner of his mouth moved. Barely. Just once. "Of course." He said quietly.