I’ve been wanting to do some open-ended creative writing in this Journal. We used to do this kind of thing a lot on HITRECORD with the much beloved Weekly Writing Challenge (WWC). Actually I take it back that we “used to,” because even though it’s been a while since I’ve personally participated, the community is still keeping it up to this day. I just looked now, and the most recent contribution to WWC was just posted an hour ago. Huge cheers to all the writers still doing the WWC, and to everyone still using the site! I love and miss you guys, and I want to bring some HITRECORD Community flavor back into the work I’m doing these days. I know a lot of you folks out there reading this on Substack like to write as well. So here’s what I want to do.
I want to start something I’ll call the 1-Hour Writing Challenge. It’ll be different from the WWC, because I honestly won’t be able to do it every week. But I know a lot of you are short on time too. So hopefully this’ll be a good motivator to get us all doing some creative writing. I know even one hour is a lot of time when you’re busy, especially if you’re a parent, but writing’s so good for the soul, it’ll be worth it.
Here’s how it’ll go: every now and then, I’ll find a good WWC prompt, and I’ll spend an hour writing something. I’ll post what I’ve written, along with the prompt. And if you feel inspired, you can write something for the same prompt. You can post yours on HITRECORD, leave a comment or a link on Substack, or whatever’s clever. And when one of you write something outstandingly awesome, I’ll post that along with my next one.
Okay, so here’s the first one. I chose this old WWC prompt by WorksWithTheDead:
Write a story about an everyday member of suburbia and their unusual, behind-closed-doors life.
I spent an hour (well, a tad more) writing a short story inspired by this prompt. And in the spirit of HITRECORD, I’m also gonna include another short story inspired by the same prompt by RaphaelleH. Yes, it co-stars a sex doll, but it actually made me think of the imminent (nay, already upon us) and troubling rise of AI lovers. Happy reading!
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Holy of Holies
by Joe
As she sits down at the piano, she’s got a gravity about her. She takes a deep and easy breath. Her eyes close. And then, the sound coming out of her, coming off of her in waves, it’s like the universe spent the last thirteen billion years, particles bumping into each other, systems forming, organisms evolving, all in service of this moment, all so it could hear her sing.
But nobody’s listening.
Gale doesn’t have a lot of money, but she doesn’t spend too much either. She has a little house about a half hour drive from the office. She has a kitchen where she cooks most everything she eats, and a bedroom where she sleeps alone most every night, and a basement where she keeps the spinet piano her father left her.
“You know the old Latin word for breath?” she remembers the first time her father asked her that. She was probably nine or ten.
“What?”
“Spiritus, like spirit. Every time you breathe in, that’s the holy spirit filling you up. And every time you breathe out, that’s you giving it back to the trees.”
If you heard her sing, I promise you’d fall right the hell over on your ass, either that or crack up laughing. She’s that good. But nobody knows it. And she prefers it that way. Of course, she has considered the possibilities. Maybe go sing at an open-mic night, or maybe record herself and post it online, or something. Maybe she’d be discovered. Maybe she’d make it big. She doesn’t have the fine featured face of the pop stars you see everywhere, but maybe her voice would carry her to stardom. Maybe she’d be rich and famous, and people would gather in concert halls or basketball arenas and chant her name, begging for an encore. But in the end, none of that really compels her all that much.
It just seems like too big a risk. The joy she feels, night after night, singing alone downstairs after dinner. The burning fire and the quiet peace. The transcendence of where and when and who. That’s the gift, cultivated over half a lifetime. She wouldn’t trade it for anything. And it’s a delicate alchemy, she knows enough to know that. Throw in a bunch of people’s opinions? She could just imagine the whole beautiful thing disintegrating like a spider-web over a lit match. No, she’s happy just like this, and she knows it, sure as anyone knows anything.
She finishes her first song and takes a few breaths. Then her fingers find the spinet’s keys again, her eyes close once more, and she refills her lungs.
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My husband, his sex doll and I (WWC 168)
by RaphaelleH
My husband has a sex doll. He calls her Eleanor Montgomery.
It could be worse, he could call her Jerôme. Or Suzy, which is my sister’s name. Or Gonzo, which was his dog’s name and is also the answer to the security question for all his bank accounts.
We have been married for twenty-three years. People tell me that they look at us and think, this is what a marriage should be like. Of course there is no such thing as a perfect couple, but if there was, I’d say we come pretty close.
We touch each other’s arm in passing. We smile at each other across the table when we are seated apart at dinner parties. We talk about our day in the evening and we actually want to hear what the other has to say.
Also, we look good together, like in a catalogue or on instagram. My husband is very handsome. He was only ok-looking when we met, but he grew into his looks the way men sometimes do. I’m quite attractive as well. I work out a lot and I am happy. Happiness is the key to looking good.
We haven’t had sex in sixteen years.
Our house is really nice. Big enough for a couple with two kids, but we get to have it all to ourselves. We never wanted kids, the need was just never there. We have two nieces and three nephews, and they sometimes stay with us. That’s lovely, but we are always glad when they leave, and we can enjoy each other’s company again.
We have barbecues on the lawn in the summer. Sometimes my husband makes a fire, and we have some wine, and I put my head in his lap and he strokes my hair as we look at the stars. Those are the moments you remember forever.
Eleanor the sex doll has a room all to herself. It used to be the second guest room. It is smaller than the first guest room, which is why it was rarely used. The view is actually nicer. We bought the house almost twenty years ago, the market was on fire, but we didn’t feel we overpaid. We love our house. Anyway, we have money.
My husband is vice-president of a software company that does boring but useful things to process engines. He leads a department of twenty people, and when they have work outings, I can see how much they all like and respect him. It makes me proud. Eleanor would prefer him to work less and spend more time with her. She can be a bit demanding and controlling.
My husband has given Eleanor a whole array of character traits. Possessiveness is just one of them. She is also easily distracted, has a bad memory and is afraid of spiders. She’s a nymphomaniac and loves giving blow jobs. She lost her virginity to an older man at a car dealership and hasn’t looked back since.
Well, according to my husband, that is. Eleanor doesn’t talk to me. I guess she doesn’t like it that he won't consider divorce. I sympathize with her, but my husband would never break the promises he made to me in front of our family and friends. He is a stand-up guy with firm values.
I am a literary agent and take care of three extremely successful authors. If I had known there was a job like this when I was growing up, it would have been my answer to the essay question “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Back then I wrote about becoming a gardener. I still love spending time outside.
On weekends, I take care of the roses in our garden and chat with our neighbours, Marie and Thomas. Their eldest son has just been arrested for dealing pot. The whole neighbourhood knows, poor Marie. I know she envies my perfect life, but I can’t help it if I have it all.
I cut off all the thorns from my roses. Sometimes I jab one into my thumb and leave it inside until the skin turns blue. Then I drive to the emergency room where they remove it. They call me “the accidental gardener”, as in ‘prone to accidents’. I think that’s funny. And so sweet that they worry about me.
My roses have won prizes. At local exhibitions only, but it made me really happy. My husband says I have a gift for plants and a gift for making him happy. He always pays me little compliments like that.
In the morning, he serves Eleanor breakfast in bed. It is only fair, considering the nights she has. The one thing I would change about our house is the walls. You can hear everything through those walls. Biting into an apple sounds like an earthquake. It is difficult to ignore my husband and Eleanor. She's a screamer.
Otherwise, everything in our house is just divine, everybody says so. Except for the paint in the dining room. What was I thinking with a green wall? It’s a color that creates disharmony. I prefer eggshell.
Eleanor and my husband are going on a trip to Rome next weekend. I will redo the dining room then. He will be pleasantly surprised when he gets back. I like surprising him like that, showing him that I care. He booked Eleanor an aisle seat on the plane. Apparently flying makes her iffy.
I go shopping a lot. I have a great sense of style and know how to put an outfit together. It is wonderful to be at a point at my life where I don’t feel guilty for indulging myself. I work hard, I deserve a treat. And the girls in the shops are always happy to see me.
Only, sometimes things vanish from my closet. I suspect my husband gives them to Eleanor. Or maybe to charity. He has a very kind heart and always looks out for other people. It is one of the things I love about him. That and his sense of humor.
Our life is just wonderful. When people ask what the secret to our happy marriage is, I say, we talk a lot, have the same political views and make each other laugh.
I bet Eleanor never makes him laugh.
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Now it’s your turn to write, if you so desire. Here’s the prompt one more time:
Write a story about an everyday member of suburbia and their unusual, behind-closed-doors life.
Again, you can post yours on HITRECORD here, leave a comment or a link on this Substack post, or whatever’s clever. And when one of you write something outstandingly awesome, I’ll post that along with my next one.
Thanks again <3
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