Behind the Story

It was late when I started—around 2 AM—and I had church in the morning. I’d missed last week due to procrastination, Easter, and business changes, including hosting issues that had to be resolved before Monday. This time, I had a Writer’s Salon after church, so having something ready felt important. On top of that, I had a ribbon-cutting, a drum circle, and a special NAACP event invitation to another church after they had visited ours, all overlapping throughout the day.

The prompt was “Chip.” It felt too broad. Computer chips? Fish and chips? Chipped paint? Stone? Alvin & the Chipmunks? Maybe an old great-grandfather reminiscing with pride about being a Chip & Dale. I wanted something different—something that leaned into the word without ever saying it, in a way people wouldn’t expect.

I started by writing C H I P twenty-five times—a repeating acrostic constraint, or close enough. Then I filled in words around those letters to form sentences. The story grew around two familiar names: Charles and Paul. The real challenge was vocabulary. I often knew what I wanted to say, but the next letter dictated how I could say it. A thesaurus didn’t help much—it felt more like a red herring, wasting time. I found myself repeating phrasing, trying not to sound repetitive while staying within the constraint. The word “place” snuck in three times, while others—hope, crushing, panic, husks, and help—appeared twice. “Hum” and “hummed” slipped in as well, different but close enough to feel the same, and uncomfortably near “humbly“.

Near the end, I had five lines left—just C H I P repeated. I considered leaving it that way, but it didn’t feel complete. Reading it aloud, it would’ve just been “chip, chip, chip…”—a dark implication, but not a satisfying ending.

So I pushed further. Charles became pulp fiction, literally. And then it clicked: what if the result was… edible? Something absurd, unsettling—dark humor with a twist.

After finishing, I rearranged lines for readability and added punctuation. For the title, I first considered “Bake at 350° for 30 Minutes,” but landed on “Repeat Until Texture Is Uniform.” It felt more aligned with the process happening in the story than a traditional recipe.

Recording took a few tries. The pacing needed to be slower—about twice my usual speed. I still feel like my voice lacks distinction, but maybe that comes with time.

Then came the music. On Producer.ai, I noticed their upcoming shift to Google’s data policies—at least they’re not threatening to delete everything again on short notice. I followed my usual process: instrumental mode, story pasted into the prompt. The result was… not what I expected. Instead of eerie horror, I got fast-paced techno.

I almost scrapped it. But listening closely, I started hearing potential.

In Audacity, I broke the track into clips, staggered them across two channels, and faded transitions in and out. I dropped everything to -20 dB so it wouldn’t overpower the narration. The fragments began to feel intentional—like a heartbeat, mechanical chopping, rising panic. I even reused the quiet intro later in the story after a buildup. The contrast worked. The fast tempo, paired with slow narration, amplified the tension.

Everything was done: story, voice, effects, music. I drafted the submission email—and then saw it.

“Chipper.”

Not exactly “chip,” but close enough to ruin the subtlety. The story gave itself away. I’d tried to be clever and ended up obvious.

I thought about rewriting it. But I was done.

Sometimes you just send it and move on.

There’s always next time.