writing-sam

[writing-sam]

“Oh my god you’re a writer? Can I read your stuff?”

[writing-sam]

obsessed with characters being saved against their will. being knocked unconscious and carried away from a danger they won't stop trying to fight. being shoved through a portal somewhere far away and safe right before it closes. trying to self-sacrifice only to have the exact person they're trying to save swap their places at the last second. getting the only cure to the disease or curse bc the person administering it loves them too much to give it to anyone else, including themselves. being thrown to safety right as they had accepted dying. someone else they thought had gotten to safety running back to drag them out of danger. it's so fucking tasty

[writing-sam]

when u come up with a tiny change for your story that not only makes the writing flow better but also hammers in the character motivations and story theme

[writing-sam]

Part of me wants to shift the entirety of Magical Fantasy Adventure Land into the normal world instead of splitting it into a separate realm.

Part of me is still annoyed that this fucker still doesn’t have a proper title. Or at least something that sounds better as a place holder.

[writing-sam]

can't believe it's 2022 and we still have posts around about not overusing "said" like seriously? Imagine if I made a list of words to use instead of "and." wouldn't that be stupid?

[writing-sam]

[writing-sam]

Fans of Paramore, fredo disco, The Greeting Committee, and any female lead indie rock band can finally quench their musical thirst because Long Beach’s very own Chase Petra has released a new EP, titled 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

It’s been almost three years since their debut album Liminal launched them from their local pop punk scene onto the national stage. With over 100,000 monthly listeners and a cumulative 4.2 million streams on Spotify, a tour currently blazing up the West coast, and a new label, their new EP is sure to stir up a buzz in the independent rock community.

4 o’clock in the afternoon is the first release under their new label, Wax Bodega, who puts out other indie musicians such as Hot Mulligan and Carly Cosgrove. Their new EP features 6 total tracks and 3 singles released earlier this year: ‘Keanu Reeves’, ‘Josslyn’, and ‘Pacific’, all of which feature their staple 20-something angst with catchy bass lines, melancholic lyrics, and vivid California imagery. They tug at your heartstrings no matter where you’re from, touching on themes of mental health, belonging, escapism, and sociocultural topics.

In addition to the singles, the album features 3 new tracks ‘Nature vs Nurture’, ‘October Windfall’, and ‘Sightseer’. These songs have a slower tempo than the singles, giving this EP a balanced blend of upbeat and mellow pessimism.

With lyrics including “there’s no such thing as destiny, you choose what you wanna be”, Chase Petra confronts quarter life crisis head on, inspiring listeners to ‘bash [away] your sorrow’ as the Wax Bodega website puts it. The tracks on the album push you to analyze our society and culture and urge you to challenge what you’re told and what you believe.

The first lyrics powerhouse vocalist Hunter Allen delivers in the fifth song, ‘Sightseer’ are “consciousness is a phase”, continuing the verse to describe the endless cycle of self reassurance in a society whose expectations can never be met. The larger focus of the song is on anxiety and dissociation, on seeking a sense of identity while outside sources pull you in every direction.

Single ‘Josslyn’ is a rebel anthem and an earworm; its chorus beckons you to scream along to it and it’s catchy enough that it feels great doing so. It’s an homage to activists and any people fighting for their liberation as said in the chorus: “those that have come before you/burn bright with a hope and a truth too”. ‘Josslyn’ doesn’t shy away from the harsh reality of activism, instead embracing the chaos by exclaiming that Josslyn, who is a stand-in for the modern politically active listener, is “really in for it now”. Aren’t we all?

Evoking After Laughter-era Paramore with contrasting boppy beats and passionate vocals, Chase Petra draws the listeners into an autumnal California, chock full of gloomy imagery and a feeling of not belonging. If you’ve ever needed a soundtrack to drive down an empty highway to, 4 o’clock in the afternoon is the album to blast.

[writing-sam]

Reality Show | 1k words

The prompt was to write a story based on 10 of your current obsessions. Can you guess some of mine from this piece?

Image courtesy of Unsplash user @/mohdelle

Click Keep Reading to read the story! 

content warning: brief mentions of most bodily fluids, short and non-descriptive s*x scene, and death. 

There is a sweeping shot of the mansion, Paramore’s “Ain’t It Fun” playing over the montage of smiling 20-somethings, all pretty and all rich. The camera focuses on the hostess of this show, her heavily lidded eyes clouded with black and red eyeshadow, a v-line dress plunging toward her navel. The smile on her face is set in place, effortless but not lazy. She speaks. 

“What’s up y’all!” Her voice is loud even without the microphone, commanding the attention of the cheering crowd with every word. “It’s ya girl Tiffany Pollard and we are back with a brand new season of…” 

Her opening monologue continues, interspersed with shots of wannabe celebrities, with blond, black, blue, red, brown hair, their skin a milky brown, all energetic as coffee. They’re here to win money, fame, chicks, and dicks. They’re on the show to find love, themselves, their purpose. They’re here because their contract says they have to be. 

When Tiffany enters the AirBNB rented for the show, she is acutely aware of the way everyone gawks at her, their combined gaze alongside the blasting air conditioning makes her nipples hurt with shrinkage. She doesn’t bother sticking to the script the producers gave her and when she’s approached by them later she shrugs, knowing they don’t care, not really. With the way they look at her—adoring, fearing, lusting—she knows this is her show, that every show is. Her control extends to every aspect of this would be game show and thus she sends them away, the contestants, the cameramen, the producers. 

Paramore’s “Still Into You” plays over slow zoom-ins of the Spanish beaches, the calm waves splashing against young Spanish feet buried in white, Spanish sand. There is a self-serve bar resting against the wall of foliage, it’s designed to mimic something Polynesian but nothing specific. The tiki torches are lit even though the Sun rests large and heavy in the clear sky. There is no escaping the heat so the contestants drink to quench their thirst and then drink again when that thirst returns. The medical student amongst them knows drinking will only make her thirstier so she drinks even more. Someone is looking at her, specifically at the splotches of sand stuck to the back of her thighs and her exposed ass. 

“Looks like Marco’s zeroing in on the newest arrival quickly, leaving Poppy trailing behind him like a puppy!” 

“Misery Business”’s chorus is playing over the night vision shot of moving sheets, tossing into the air and settling back down again before repeating. Marco’s breath is hot, it stinks of alcohol under the hot sheets and fills the small space with the scent of intoxication. Alanna is too shy to tell Marco that he’s slipped out of her and is secretly glad he did. 

She tells the confessional that she knows Poppy will vote her off, that she isn’t entirely sure if anyone here catches her eye but is having a good time regardless. The gaudy curtain, baby blue and gold, which shields the soundproofing from view of the camera catches her eye more than any of her fellow contestants.  Her voice is cut off before she mentions missing her pets. 

“Escape Route” is playing but switches to “Part II” 3 and a half minutes in when someone picks up a rock. It is peculiarly shaped, with a single jagged edge, and colored like moss. The camera only shows their hand, it’s wrapped in a baby blue beach towel. They wrap their hand around it firmly.

The commercial break slot is booked by Hardee’s, showing a beef patty, raw and juicy, being chargrilled over an open flame. The final product doesn’t match. 

“Misguided Ghosts” plays over green night vision footage. Alanna is nursing a hangover and Poppy brings her something for her stomach. Tiffany knows who gave Poppy the drink, the cold can with the covered label, she knows Poppy didn’t come up with that idea on her own even though she

“-swears by ginger ale! But only Canada Dry, everything else is too bitter for a hangover.”

She makes a quip about Alanna’s face touching the toilet seat, a joke about her knowing the dangers of being so close to something festering with filth. Tiffany remarks in post production that Canada Dry is not a sponsor of the show, but they are always willing to negotiate. 

“Future” plays the next morning. It’s Paramore’s longest song and plays for the entirety of the elimination ceremony. Alanna is still in bed, having been dragged back by one of the faceless sets of abs after Poppy’s intervention. 

“Get her lazy ass up!” Tiffany laughs. She isn’t joking. 

A cameraman is already in the sleeping quarters when someone enters the room. He has been there, filming Alanna’s sleeping body since the Sun rose over the villa. It’s his job and he doesn’t get paid enough to do anything more than that. 

The scream that resonates from the house moves the contestants from their beachside lounge chairs, various bikini clad figures shuffling into the house. The person who goes to wake Alanna crashes into Marco’s arms, he’s the closest to the entrance. 

There are red patchy platelets covering the exposed areas of Alanna’s body, her pupils are completely dilated despite the sunlight filtering through the now pulled back curtains. There is a foul smell that the camera can’t pick up but can be imagined by the way Marco vomits upon entering the room. He feels Alanna wrap tightly around him, a cry coming from her lips as he pushes further into her, and he vomits again. 

The cameraman is still filming Alanna’s still body, taking care to focus the lens on the streak of vomit and blood trailing from her lips, the feces and urine pooling beneath her body, soaking into the cheap memory foam. No one wonders if the mattress will remember this. 

“Last Hope” is playing as the cadaver is covered by the onsite medic, the sound of ambulance and police sirens, gagging, cursing, all fighting as one against the soft melody of Hayley Williams’ voice. 

[writing-sam]

The Lotus Brooch | 1.2k words

This prompt is borrowed from Rick Hillis' "The Prefab Story Exercise" that appears in Now Write! Fiction Writing Exercises from Today's Best Writers & Teachers, edited by Sherry Ellis.

1. The story will be between three and five pages. No longer.

2. The action happens over a long weekend.

3. The story opens with a line of exposition as the protagonist watches the antagonist arrive.

4. The antagonist has something that the protagonist wants or thinks they deserve.

5. Over the course of the weekend, the protagonist is presented with the opportunity of taking this object of desire...or not.

6. Important, this "thing" should have metaphorical suggestiveness. It should be the controlling metaphor and the title of the story.

7. Also important, nothing is explained; we are told nothing or almost nothing. Everything - meaning, feeling, though - unfolds through action, detail, description.

Click ‘keep reading’ for the story!

Image courtesy of Unsplash user @/fallsonata

The sunlight pushed its way through the open entranceway as if carried by the harsh summer wind. Samar could hear her sister’s voice approaching but all she could focus on was the glittering pink and silver brooch fixed in the center of Yasmine’s bun. The twinkling of the metal drowned out her voice, calling to Samar, hypnotizing her, in a language that she never managed to understand. As Yasmine and Bedario parted through the curtain of sunlight, they came into full view before Samar. Her eyes flickered from her sister’s face back to the brooch, returning to her face again when the couple stopped before her. 

“Salaam ‘aleikum, Samar,” Yasmine greeted, looking over Samar’s head and into the foyer behind her. “Where’s Mama and Baba? I wanted to surprise them for their anniversary.”

“Uhm-” Samar looked at Bedario, at the sweat balancing precariously on the edge of his brow bone, and she gave him a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Yasmine didn’t wait for an answer, walking into the house past her little sister, the echoey click of her high heels disappearing into soft pads on the new expensive rug decorating the tiled entrance way. Before she could follow her, Bedario grabbed Salam’s forearm with fat, ring adorned fingers. Her chest seized in the brief moment it took their eyes to meet. He nodded towards the suitcases beside them.

“Take these up to our room, please?” The gentle, cordial voice he used didn’t disguise the command. Samar’s nostrils flared, the small golden rings dangling from them swinging with the force of her jerking her arm out of his limp grasp. Grabbing the luggage, she grunted, swearing under her breath. 

If she’s gonna marry a fatass she could’ve at least married a rich one, Samar thought, her muscles straining to lift the suitcases up and over the delicate glass stairs. Then at least he’d have a driver to deal with all this bullshit. 

Samar wasn’t invited to the surprise lunch. 

“It’s a double date,” Yasmine insisted, the pink lip gloss painting her lips making the pout plastered on her face even more obnoxious. “I wouldn’t want you to feel left out, tafahm?” 

Samar’s face was hot, everything felt hot and she restrained the urge to cry or yell or stomp her bare feet. 

“Then I guess I should leave.” 

Samar retreated to the room she’d once shared with Yasmine when they were children, the room she still stayed in. She stopped by the kitchen, grabbing a serving of the remaining Greek salad from the lunch that she was pointedly not invited to. The olives she’d eagerly taken a bite of hurt her jaw, sending bitterness racing through her body and she let the plate clatter onto the counter. It spun, pirouetting recklessly before settling onto the clean, white surface, barely a mess made. She suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore.

Squeezing her fist, once, twice, Samar let out a sigh, the distant sounds of conversation drifting in through her open window. She couldn’t shut out the arid wind but she could shut out the noise. 

Moving towards the cello, she entered the natural ritual of pulling out her chair, setting up the music stand, the music sheet, the instrument itself. The cello pressed against her chest, positioning itself against the fragility of both her collarbones and knees. 

She’d set up the music sheet out of habit, not bothering to reference it as she ran the bow over the strings, pushing against the slight resistance to let out a deep, bellowing note. The music ran around and through her, pouring out of her as the silky notes reverberating in the air. The voices of her family, and of Bedario, no longer reached her ears, replaced by her own resounding melody. 

She was nearly asleep, the scent of jasmine, lotus, and lavender wafting in thin wisps from the lit candle on the windowsill when Yasmine walked in. She plopped onto the edge of Samar’s bed, pulling the blanket off of her in the process. She groaned, turning over.

“Samar…” Yasmine’s voice was discordant, a string pulled out of tune mid solo. “Samar, braid my hair, will you? I wanna relax.”

Samar’s vision took a moment to adjust to the muted light of her room, but even with blurred vision, she could see how out of place Yasmine looked. Her back was straight, her slender hands resting on her lap, eyes fixed on her sister. The room was still painted the same shade of pale pink as it had been for the past ten years, a lighter variation of the color it had been for the ten years before that, but Yasmine’s angular, matured face didn’t match the now wide open space. It was no wonder she never came to visit. 

Rubbing her eyes, Samar pointed towards the chair tucked neatly into her desk. A smile spread over Yasmine’s face as she bounced to her feet, moving to do as she was told. She settled into the seat positioned conveniently in front of the mirror, letting her eyes slip closed with a quiet sigh. 

Samar released her own sigh, giving herself a once over. Even at this time of night, whatever time it could have been, Yasmine’s hair was fixed into place, layered over itself and finished with the fragile brooch. Unpinning the metal piece, Samar let gravity untangle the waves pouring from Yasmine’s scalp. 

The lotus felt like hot iron in Samar’s hand, the weight of it surprisingly light. The candlelight danced along each pink brushstroke adorning the petals, the faint twinkling a pale imitation of the sunlight from days prior. It was beautiful. The petals of the flower were lined with dozens of tiny gemstones, the lily pads making up the base as soft as glass could be and as opaque. Her breath felt like an anchor in her throat, unmoving as she was as she stared, enamored for however brief a moment with the colors dancing along the petals, her skin. The deep mahogany of her skin was the perfect canvas for the lotus’ light shows, she decided then. Her eyes finally broke from the lotus to look at Yasmine whose languid breaths were barely audible over the quiet flickering of Samar’s candle. 

Trailing over the mirror, she stopped to see Bedario leaning against the wide door frame to her room. His deep set eyes were locked with Yasmine’s through the mirror, his expression unreadable. Yasmine’s lips tilted at the corners, barely noticeable to Samar but easily recognizable to Bedario and he disappeared down the blackened hall.

Samar jumped at the sound of Yasmine’s voice. “Mind hurrying up?” she whispered harshly and Samar ran the brush through her hair quickly, yanking her head back in the process. 

She ran the brush rhythmically through wily strands of hair, returning her sister’s complaints with feeble, half-hearted apologies. Separating the hair into three sections, Samar weaved it into a large braid formed by intricate plaits pressed against her scalp.

“Done.” She spoke with the lotus still in her hand. Her sister stood, moving for the door and the flower felt hotter than ever in her hand. It was burning her and if she inhaled deep enough she would smell her hand cooking. 

Yasmine was in the doorway. Samar hadn’t moved.

“Estanna! I forgot your flower!” she called to her. Yasmine rushed back in, her eyes wide. 

Samar placed the flower in Yasmine’s palms and they, both delicate, both matching, left the room. 

[writing-sam]

The Yard Sale Scene

Prompt: The set up is two main characters, a buyer & seller. Three items must be mentioned. Among the items are a bike, a futon, & some electronic equipment. The buyer must buy one of the items & it has to be a complete transaction. The people have never met, the sale is taking place in yard of the seller, & the reader must know by the end that items belonged to the dead child of the seller. But the seller can never mention the child, & can never make explicit reference to emotion or use language that hints at the loss.  250 words. No other restrictions.

Click read more for the story!

Image courtesy of Unsplash user @/ugmonk.

The futon sat on the lawn, absorbing the morning dew through the short clipped grass. Atop it sat Juliana, her legs crossed as she played some addictive match-3 game on her phone. She tossed a glance at the people drifting in and out of the sale, picking up and setting down items in an unending funeral procession. 

“How much?”

She looked up, shielding her eyes against the blistering morning sun to look up at the kid standing before her. His hair was swept over his eyes and Juliana was surprised that he could even see the bike he’d nodded towards.

“How much do you got?” She stood up now, her height barely clearing his. He inspected the hunk of metal beside her, fingering the paper stuck onto the frame -- the last remnants of the Monster and Supreme stickers clinging on for their life. 

He scowled, fixing his mouth to the side, two glints of metal shining on each side of his lip. He couldn’t have been more than 16 and Juliana wondered if he had fought with his parents to get the piercings, if the argument was still a fresh wound, if they made sure to say they loved each other each night before going to bed. She wasn’t listening to him anymore.

“I can give you $150 for the bike and the junk tech over there?” Juliana nodded in agreement. She couldn’t tell if the scent of AXE was coming from the worn couch or the boy before her.

[writing-sam]

Disclaimer!

A few things of note here: all original works by me (sam howard) are subject to copyright and any attempt at plagarism will be met with legal action! All original content will be tagged as #original content. Lastly,

reblogs > likes! Liking doesn’t do much to support a creator’s art!