Been actually thinking about picking up writing again! It's been a few years unfortunately, but I do love being creative, and as you said, it is good for the soul. Your story as well as the one RaphaelleH wrote were soothing to read and listen to. I will definitely look into the 1-Hour Writing Challenge. Thanks for the inspiration, this is exactly what I needed! :)
@josephgordonlevitt I really related to your story, as an unknown singer, except I would like people to hear me sing. Oh, BTW, I'm a fantastic singer, a handful of drunks can't be wrong!! I also really enjoyed the story by RaphaelleH and the multiple levels it contained (between the lines).
I usually write my "short stories" as poems (being a songwriter primarily) and I actually find it faster than writing prose. Plus, I like it and others seem to like it too. This took me 24 min to write. I sometimes take a dark turn in my writing (I don't know why). It's either that or sci-fi or fantasy.
Glenn stopped looking outside.The full length front windows were always shaded by a long retractable accordion blind that let a bit of light seep through at the bottom. High angled ceilings seemed to swallow whatever light there was.The years had worn his face into a puzzled countenance, often framed by any one of an assortment of “cheaters,” allowing him to read the fine microprint on packaged food labels.
Life had lost all of its immediacy as the calendar blocks were mostly left blank; except that is, the occasional doctor’s visit. “The person looking outside of oneself is dreaming. The person looking inside is individuating, becoming whole,” Dr. Jung observed.
The upstairs room had become vacant, and up the spiral staircase to the top landing laid the creative lair. In one corner, a desk with a laptop, connected to an interface, connected to a letterbox monitor, connected to a pair of powered speakers, connected to but not connected to a wireless mouse. In the opposite corner, the entrance to a walk-in closet where a stack of guitar cases leaned vertically on both sides resembling subway riders standing in a line; a Celtic harp on the shelf alongside a ukulele and a mandolin. Adjacent to the computer desk, a keyboard on a cheap stand with a floor pedal.
Glenn lifted the top of the laptop, and the monitor lit up with a beautiful forest backdrop. Once inside the login protocol, he clicked on the Studio icon, and the screen was filled with a list of tracks each track containing a musical instrument. Glenn moved over to the huge cylindrical microphone, that resembled a grenade, and carried it next to a music stand with a legal sheet of paper of hand scribbled lyrics. He ran the cable into the Scarlett interface, and armed a vocal track that lit up red. With headphones on, he started the playback singing into the complete silence of the room. No other sound but silence and Glenn’s breathful warbling. He had been repeating this tranquil singing for two years, at times harmonizing with himself, but always, in complete and reverent silence. The condenser microphone was so powerful that when the heater turned on in winter, or the air conditioning in summer, it sounded like a category 3 tornado.
“Shit! Son of a bitch,” Glenn would guffaw ripping the headphones off of his head. Marching down the spiral stairs over to thermostat, he finagled the switches until the microprint of the display read “off.” Of course, this required grabbing a random cheater, whichever one happened to be handy. The small frame reminded him of “The Nutty Professor.”
This activity had become Glenn’s process of individuation, where he confronted the inner demons of his shadow, masterfully sending them through the air to be swallowed by the grenade. And in the hidden secret world of music spilling into his headphones.
Glenn had carefully assembled his lair into a state-of-the-art recording studio arming his arsenal with a plethora of instruments. His library contained symphonic strings, horns, woodwinds. He had collected intangible digitized drums, guitars, percussion, woozy pads that sounded eerily like space-aged extraterrestrial mating calls. All of these mixed together in a uproarious grandeur, yet still unleashed into the atmosphere. He began to sweat. His skin felt flushed and moist.
“Damn!”
Glenn ripped of the headphones off his secret world and barreled down the spiral stairs. Grabbing the cheaters he turned the air conditioning on. The cellphone began to vibrate and ring.
His sister would call every morning to check that Glenn had not passed in his sleep.
“Hello?”
Valerie greeted him, “Good morning! What are you up to today?”
Glenn paused as the air conditioner kicked on.
“Well, Val, I’m mixing and threw Nectar on my vocal, Neutron on everything else, then plopped Ozone on the Main. I’m about to crunch everything into a WAV. Why?”
A noise from the cellphone then a voice.
“That’s nice, so long as your busy. Don’t forget your meds.”
“OK. I won’t. Let’s head to a matinee soon at the AMC.”
“I’ll see what’s playing. It’ll be good for you to get out.”
OUT OF DARKNESS. Out of the womb and into the world. It was dark. No vision. No light. Just darkness. With eyes wide open, he came. First the love, then the abuse, the pain, the . . . DARKNESS. The fear at night when I closed my eyes. The fear of my closet with EYES wide open. Under the bed, the fear of the unknown. And as a child, the fear of life. Out of darkness as I grew older. Escaping the fear as I fled the night. He is older now. And he drifts into eternal. HIS darkness has arrived. And The Reaper leads him home. Dear old dad. I am not afraid anymore. No more abuse, no more, nightness. Out of my darkness and NOW into the LIGHT.
Not sure why but my account on HitRecord has been temporarily blocked (I only just made an account so if anyone knows what's going on please let me know!) so I'll post my story here:
Friends, Family and Inherent Dichotomy:
My friends believe I went mad when I decided to become a cleaner. My parents to this day think I’m pulling their leg every time I mention what I do for a living even though I’ve been a cleaner for a good decade now. They’re tired of my lies they say. It’s a consequence of the fact that I used to pull their leg all the time when I was younger: “I’m going to decline my place at Oxford and do Theatre Studies at Birkbeck instead.” was what I jokingly said all those years ago.
I love being a cleaner. It’s more complicated than you think and refreshing and the most satisfying job in the world. There’s just something about getting up close and personal to mess and deliberately erasing it with your own two hands using nothing but the simplest of tools. Cleaning is magic is what it is: it’s being able to alter the face of an object with one swipe of the hand; it’s rewriting reality into something purer; it’s about making things disappear; but most of all, cleaning is a shimmering illusion. A temporary state of permanence. Tomorrow, I will have to clean the same library floor again. The floor is unclean, clean, unclean, clean, unclean.
But that’s okay because it’s a more accurate description of what goes on in my life. In fact, there’s something you should know: my parents are never wrong. They know me best after all.
On Sundays I make messes. Today is Sunday and there’s blood on my hands. You see, they told me there was a woman. A Not Very Good woman. In my defence, it was a man last week. I see it as an extension of cleaning, in all honesty, even though I always go home feeling terribly unclean. And the way I leave surfaces stained dark...well, it’s strange is what it is. Strange that I’m leaving the surface cleaning to others for a day. I suppose, in a way, Sunday is my day of rest. There have always been those who’ve hated my brand of humour.
I tell people I am a cleaner. My friends believe me. My parents think I’m a liar but there’s something else you should know: my parents are never right either. They always misunderstand me the most after all.
Oh wait, when I click on it, it says there is no record. That's weird. It let me heart it though, in the prompt screen, and you can see it in the prompt screen. Shame you can't post images here, I did a screenshot.
I tried posting in hit record but there was a text Input Limit so I’m Writing here.
WARNING if you don’t like sexy stories you may not want to read this.
- EXACTLY WHAT WE NEEDED -
It’s now been 3 months… 3 months of no arguing, no crusty panties and I can finally have fun shopping again. 3 months since my husband gave Sarah her first bath, right hand deep inside of her making sure he got every last remnant of his semen out of her plump insides. I knew then she was going to be a part of this marriage forever... I mean, We’ve been struggling these last 3 years ever since I gave birth to our daughter Mila, who is such a bright light that I can’t stay away from. she deserves all my attention and needs me to help her absorb as much information as possible, but on the other end of the dark mahogany hall, my husband was always sitting in a dark room, constantly emptying out his loads into my dirty panties. I don’t blame him…3 years ago we couldn’t stay off each other, he was like my favorite ride at the carnival; The one I had to keep getting back on over and over. Maybe it’s my fault he’s a sex fein. That’s why I felt it was my duty to take care of it. That’s when I brought sarah home, someone who could obey his every need. I tried to sneak her in from the garage to the house, but Mila must have smelled the doll fumes; She came out of her room as soon as I grabbed our bedroom door handle, Sarah in my other arm, waist in armpit and Mila yelled out “doll!” with excitement. I didn’t know what to say or do as most deer in the headlights don’t, so I told her she was too heavy and that I was going to have to take her back. I already knew then that wasn’t going to be the case as mark locked eyes with Sarah, while there standing where kitchen meets hall. I could tell this is what he’s been waiting for by the one raised eyebrow and a grin that could make even a man swoon. Sarah was already his, I knew then, there was no way she was going back, we’d just have to keep her hidden in our closet, covered by our winter coats.
Sarah’s the complete opposite of me, blonde, big behind. Boobs the size of lemons, pasty lips, button little nose, innocent looking compared to me, but someone who would obey marks every want/need. I have to admit, I now rush getting Mila down for bed, just so I can watch mark and Sarah together, it’s more like sexy background noise, I’ll just sit straight up in bed, watch my favorite show like “big little lies” wine glass in hand while they get intimate in the corner on the leather day bed, I’ll just glance over every once in awhile and think “damn my husband is sexy”. When I start rubbing my legs against one another, biting my lip thats when he knows, it’s my turn.
The only problem we do have these days is how my money just seems to flow into Sarah’s dresser drawer. ever since I gave birth to Mila my body isn’t what it used to be, soft dimpled legs, you can now see where my bra cuts into my back, so now, I have a difficult time shopping. But with Sarah in our lives, I get a high finding her all the sexy things. Seems every time we walk through the automatic doors, all the clerks and noise from women sliding hangers on the racks come to a slow stop. I just shrug the dirty looks and focus on Sarah because she gets me. She is exactly what we needed to save this marriage and what these women don’t understand is they too need a Sarah in their marriage. No more crusty panties….no more resentment….just a happy and healthy marriage.
Oh! The art we craft to ourselves! The many many stories that no-one will ever read.
I remember that story from RaphaelleH. An exceptional writer. Those were the times! So glad to see this here.
Here was my contribution to that WWC back in the day.
https://hitrecord.org/records/3447145
"It seemed that neighbor friends only do care when you live within reach of their eyesight. " No TRUER STATEMENT HAS BEEN WRITTEN!! USING THIS FOR MY SHORT STORY!! 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 🎊 👏🏽 ☺️ ✨ ☺️ 👏🏽 ☺️ 💛 💚 💙 👏🏽 ☺️ ✨ ☺️ ✨ 👏🏽 ☺️ 💛 💚 💙 👏🏽 ☺️ ✨ ☺️ ✨ 👏🏽 ☺️ 💛 💚 💙 👏🏽 👏🏽 ☺️ ✨ ☺️ 👏🏽 ☺️ 💛 💚 💙 👏🏽 ☺️ ✨ ☺️ ✨ 👏🏽 ☺️ 💛 💚 💙 👏🏽 ☺️ ✨ ☺️ ✨ 👏🏽 ☺️ 💛 💚 💙 👏🏽
Been actually thinking about picking up writing again! It's been a few years unfortunately, but I do love being creative, and as you said, it is good for the soul. Your story as well as the one RaphaelleH wrote were soothing to read and listen to. I will definitely look into the 1-Hour Writing Challenge. Thanks for the inspiration, this is exactly what I needed! :)
Here's my contribution to your challenge. Decided to go for a sort of personal story: https://hitrecord.org/records/6898105
@josephgordonlevitt I really related to your story, as an unknown singer, except I would like people to hear me sing. Oh, BTW, I'm a fantastic singer, a handful of drunks can't be wrong!! I also really enjoyed the story by RaphaelleH and the multiple levels it contained (between the lines).
I usually write my "short stories" as poems (being a songwriter primarily) and I actually find it faster than writing prose. Plus, I like it and others seem to like it too. This took me 24 min to write. I sometimes take a dark turn in my writing (I don't know why). It's either that or sci-fi or fantasy.
https://hitrecord.org/records/6898100
For those that don't have access to HitRecord (although the formatting is all screwed up here):
What Goes On Behind Closed Doors
I see him often on the train
A nine-to-fiver just like me
We walk the same way every day
We both work in the CBD
I don’t know when I got obsessed
Or why this stranger fills my mind
I walk behind him in the street
He doesn’t know I’m there behind
I watch him as he goes to work
His office building’s on my way
(Well only if I walk past mine)
It’s not too far to go astray
And when it’s time to travel home
I wait in shadows till he’s there
And once again I walk behind
A trek he doesn’t know we share
I’d thought about this long and hard
Decided that the time was right
To follow him to his abode
To find out where he spends the night
As he was always on the train
(I get on last and get off first)
I didn’t know how far we’d go
But by now I was too immersed
We only travelled two more stops
He got off first while I held back
Letting people go ahead
So I was hidden by the pack
But as we left the station grounds
I realised with rising fear
The crowd that I was hiding in
Was surely now to disappear
And so I kept my eye on him
Keeping distance as we walked
He never turned around at all
Was unaware of being stalked
His house was in a cul-de-sac
I waited till he went inside
Thankfully the night was dark
Enveloping me as I spied
Creeping to a side window
I nervously began to peer
Not knowing what I’d see inside
Or why my madness brought me here
I saw him come into the room
And walk towards a cupboard door
I suddenly felt so ashamed
Deciding I should spy no more
But when he opened up that door
The sight just glued me to the spot
I couldn’t even look away
My backbone chilled my face grew hot
Although he looked a normal guy
His cupboard held a gruesome sight
Graphic photographs of gore
Large sharp-bladed tools of fright
He seemed to worship at that shrine
But I just could not ascertain
If this was just like watching porn
Or if he used these tools for pain
And so compelled to walk away
I went back home confused as hell
Is this a secret I should keep
Or is it something I should tell
Something else I wrote in under an hour (which got more hearts and comments than I usually get):
https://hitrecord.org/records/6898239
https://theouteredges.substack.com/p/what-is-he-writing-in-there
Glenn stopped looking outside.The full length front windows were always shaded by a long retractable accordion blind that let a bit of light seep through at the bottom. High angled ceilings seemed to swallow whatever light there was.The years had worn his face into a puzzled countenance, often framed by any one of an assortment of “cheaters,” allowing him to read the fine microprint on packaged food labels.
Life had lost all of its immediacy as the calendar blocks were mostly left blank; except that is, the occasional doctor’s visit. “The person looking outside of oneself is dreaming. The person looking inside is individuating, becoming whole,” Dr. Jung observed.
The upstairs room had become vacant, and up the spiral staircase to the top landing laid the creative lair. In one corner, a desk with a laptop, connected to an interface, connected to a letterbox monitor, connected to a pair of powered speakers, connected to but not connected to a wireless mouse. In the opposite corner, the entrance to a walk-in closet where a stack of guitar cases leaned vertically on both sides resembling subway riders standing in a line; a Celtic harp on the shelf alongside a ukulele and a mandolin. Adjacent to the computer desk, a keyboard on a cheap stand with a floor pedal.
Glenn lifted the top of the laptop, and the monitor lit up with a beautiful forest backdrop. Once inside the login protocol, he clicked on the Studio icon, and the screen was filled with a list of tracks each track containing a musical instrument. Glenn moved over to the huge cylindrical microphone, that resembled a grenade, and carried it next to a music stand with a legal sheet of paper of hand scribbled lyrics. He ran the cable into the Scarlett interface, and armed a vocal track that lit up red. With headphones on, he started the playback singing into the complete silence of the room. No other sound but silence and Glenn’s breathful warbling. He had been repeating this tranquil singing for two years, at times harmonizing with himself, but always, in complete and reverent silence. The condenser microphone was so powerful that when the heater turned on in winter, or the air conditioning in summer, it sounded like a category 3 tornado.
“Shit! Son of a bitch,” Glenn would guffaw ripping the headphones off of his head. Marching down the spiral stairs over to thermostat, he finagled the switches until the microprint of the display read “off.” Of course, this required grabbing a random cheater, whichever one happened to be handy. The small frame reminded him of “The Nutty Professor.”
This activity had become Glenn’s process of individuation, where he confronted the inner demons of his shadow, masterfully sending them through the air to be swallowed by the grenade. And in the hidden secret world of music spilling into his headphones.
Glenn had carefully assembled his lair into a state-of-the-art recording studio arming his arsenal with a plethora of instruments. His library contained symphonic strings, horns, woodwinds. He had collected intangible digitized drums, guitars, percussion, woozy pads that sounded eerily like space-aged extraterrestrial mating calls. All of these mixed together in a uproarious grandeur, yet still unleashed into the atmosphere. He began to sweat. His skin felt flushed and moist.
“Damn!”
Glenn ripped of the headphones off his secret world and barreled down the spiral stairs. Grabbing the cheaters he turned the air conditioning on. The cellphone began to vibrate and ring.
His sister would call every morning to check that Glenn had not passed in his sleep.
“Hello?”
Valerie greeted him, “Good morning! What are you up to today?”
Glenn paused as the air conditioner kicked on.
“Well, Val, I’m mixing and threw Nectar on my vocal, Neutron on everything else, then plopped Ozone on the Main. I’m about to crunch everything into a WAV. Why?”
A noise from the cellphone then a voice.
“That’s nice, so long as your busy. Don’t forget your meds.”
“OK. I won’t. Let’s head to a matinee soon at the AMC.”
“I’ll see what’s playing. It’ll be good for you to get out.”
I posted something on HitRecord. Don't know if it uploaded.
Dead Maggot Swimming Pool.
I wrote it a while back. It took about an hour to write and a couple more to edit, so it probably doesn't count but whatevs...
I love that short story you wrote.
Gale is me in so many aspects.
I love the way the story flowed.
Your remarkable ☺️ ✨ ☺️
Thanks for the inspiration. I love the idea and it felt Nice creating again. I do not know if this would get to You, but here the link to My writing story: https://sserrat.wordpress.com/2025/08/15/joseph-gordon-levitt-had-this-idea-and-i/
Sex Life is on Netflix!!!! Boom!
Here's my contribution:
https://hitrecord.org/records/6898289
Definitely rushed the ending but my hour ran out. Maybe I'll go back and fill it out next time I get a free hour.
OUT OF DARKNESS. Out of the womb and into the world. It was dark. No vision. No light. Just darkness. With eyes wide open, he came. First the love, then the abuse, the pain, the . . . DARKNESS. The fear at night when I closed my eyes. The fear of my closet with EYES wide open. Under the bed, the fear of the unknown. And as a child, the fear of life. Out of darkness as I grew older. Escaping the fear as I fled the night. He is older now. And he drifts into eternal. HIS darkness has arrived. And The Reaper leads him home. Dear old dad. I am not afraid anymore. No more abuse, no more, nightness. Out of my darkness and NOW into the LIGHT.
https://hitrecord.org/records/6898217
Friends, Family and Inherent Dichotomy is about a cleaner.
Had fun writing this one, thanks Joe!
Note: the link doesn't work so I've posted my story as a reply to this comment. Enjoy!
Not sure why but my account on HitRecord has been temporarily blocked (I only just made an account so if anyone knows what's going on please let me know!) so I'll post my story here:
Friends, Family and Inherent Dichotomy:
My friends believe I went mad when I decided to become a cleaner. My parents to this day think I’m pulling their leg every time I mention what I do for a living even though I’ve been a cleaner for a good decade now. They’re tired of my lies they say. It’s a consequence of the fact that I used to pull their leg all the time when I was younger: “I’m going to decline my place at Oxford and do Theatre Studies at Birkbeck instead.” was what I jokingly said all those years ago.
I love being a cleaner. It’s more complicated than you think and refreshing and the most satisfying job in the world. There’s just something about getting up close and personal to mess and deliberately erasing it with your own two hands using nothing but the simplest of tools. Cleaning is magic is what it is: it’s being able to alter the face of an object with one swipe of the hand; it’s rewriting reality into something purer; it’s about making things disappear; but most of all, cleaning is a shimmering illusion. A temporary state of permanence. Tomorrow, I will have to clean the same library floor again. The floor is unclean, clean, unclean, clean, unclean.
But that’s okay because it’s a more accurate description of what goes on in my life. In fact, there’s something you should know: my parents are never wrong. They know me best after all.
On Sundays I make messes. Today is Sunday and there’s blood on my hands. You see, they told me there was a woman. A Not Very Good woman. In my defence, it was a man last week. I see it as an extension of cleaning, in all honesty, even though I always go home feeling terribly unclean. And the way I leave surfaces stained dark...well, it’s strange is what it is. Strange that I’m leaving the surface cleaning to others for a day. I suppose, in a way, Sunday is my day of rest. There have always been those who’ve hated my brand of humour.
I tell people I am a cleaner. My friends believe me. My parents think I’m a liar but there’s something else you should know: my parents are never right either. They always misunderstand me the most after all.
I just saw this on HitRecord today, so it is there.
Oh wait, when I click on it, it says there is no record. That's weird. It let me heart it though, in the prompt screen, and you can see it in the prompt screen. Shame you can't post images here, I did a screenshot.
Hey no worries, thanks for checking though!
Great story! Lovely little switcheroo 🙂
Thanks!
Your writing is exceptional. Thank you for sharing it, for reading these two pieces, and for inspiring us to continue to write and create.
I love that you are writing especially with your unique life experience.
I am writing about my 20 years living and working on cruise ships as an Human Resources professional if you are interested.
It is a bit niche, but a wild ride. Ship life is like living on a different planet and I want people to see what a unique microcosm it is.
Glad you are here Joe 🩷
https://open.substack.com/pub/wattsh/p/antarctica?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=3mnaw2
I tried posting in hit record but there was a text Input Limit so I’m Writing here.
WARNING if you don’t like sexy stories you may not want to read this.
- EXACTLY WHAT WE NEEDED -
It’s now been 3 months… 3 months of no arguing, no crusty panties and I can finally have fun shopping again. 3 months since my husband gave Sarah her first bath, right hand deep inside of her making sure he got every last remnant of his semen out of her plump insides. I knew then she was going to be a part of this marriage forever... I mean, We’ve been struggling these last 3 years ever since I gave birth to our daughter Mila, who is such a bright light that I can’t stay away from. she deserves all my attention and needs me to help her absorb as much information as possible, but on the other end of the dark mahogany hall, my husband was always sitting in a dark room, constantly emptying out his loads into my dirty panties. I don’t blame him…3 years ago we couldn’t stay off each other, he was like my favorite ride at the carnival; The one I had to keep getting back on over and over. Maybe it’s my fault he’s a sex fein. That’s why I felt it was my duty to take care of it. That’s when I brought sarah home, someone who could obey his every need. I tried to sneak her in from the garage to the house, but Mila must have smelled the doll fumes; She came out of her room as soon as I grabbed our bedroom door handle, Sarah in my other arm, waist in armpit and Mila yelled out “doll!” with excitement. I didn’t know what to say or do as most deer in the headlights don’t, so I told her she was too heavy and that I was going to have to take her back. I already knew then that wasn’t going to be the case as mark locked eyes with Sarah, while there standing where kitchen meets hall. I could tell this is what he’s been waiting for by the one raised eyebrow and a grin that could make even a man swoon. Sarah was already his, I knew then, there was no way she was going back, we’d just have to keep her hidden in our closet, covered by our winter coats.
Sarah’s the complete opposite of me, blonde, big behind. Boobs the size of lemons, pasty lips, button little nose, innocent looking compared to me, but someone who would obey marks every want/need. I have to admit, I now rush getting Mila down for bed, just so I can watch mark and Sarah together, it’s more like sexy background noise, I’ll just sit straight up in bed, watch my favorite show like “big little lies” wine glass in hand while they get intimate in the corner on the leather day bed, I’ll just glance over every once in awhile and think “damn my husband is sexy”. When I start rubbing my legs against one another, biting my lip thats when he knows, it’s my turn.
The only problem we do have these days is how my money just seems to flow into Sarah’s dresser drawer. ever since I gave birth to Mila my body isn’t what it used to be, soft dimpled legs, you can now see where my bra cuts into my back, so now, I have a difficult time shopping. But with Sarah in our lives, I get a high finding her all the sexy things. Seems every time we walk through the automatic doors, all the clerks and noise from women sliding hangers on the racks come to a slow stop. I just shrug the dirty looks and focus on Sarah because she gets me. She is exactly what we needed to save this marriage and what these women don’t understand is they too need a Sarah in their marriage. No more crusty panties….no more resentment….just a happy and healthy marriage.