Song Writing

Nick cracked his knuckles as he twirled a pair of worn drumsticks in his hands, already tapping out light rhythms on his thighs like he couldn’t sit still.

“Alright,” Blake said, his eyes scanning the fretboard. “Let’s start composing some songs, shall we?”

Ethan gave a small nod. “Blake, do you remember that riff from last week?”

Nick’s grin spread before the words were even finished. “You mean the one he played during that solo — that weird little bend on the third chord?”

“Yeah, that one,” Ethan said, turning to Blake. “You remember it?”

Blake tilted his head, searching his memory, then slowly plucked out a sequence. His fingers moved with practiced grace — a muted pluck, a slide, and then the tone brightened into a funky, syncopated rhythm. It had attitude — not quite rock, not quite funk — somewhere between the grooves of Nile Rodgers and the tight attack of early Chili Peppers.

Nick immediately started nodding. “Oh yeah. That’s the one.”

“Alright,” Ethan muttered, slinging his bass lower, “what if I add this?”

He dropped in a response line — lower, groovier. A steady pulse with a bit of bounce, walking up into Blake’s riff and then sinking into it again like puzzle pieces finding each other.

Blake listened, nodded. “It’s good,” he said. “But what if you go deeper — rounder, more bottom-heavy? Give it something thick, like… a heartbeat.”

Ethan didn’t need to be told twice. He adjusted his tone knob, thumb-plucked the string once, then tried again — this time slower, steadier, with a bit of reverb. The bass vibrated through the garage like a warm, pulsing undercurrent. Grounding the groove. Creating space.

“Nick,” Blake said, glancing up, “start us off — we’ll build around you.”

Nick grinned. He leaned forward on the stool, drumsticks poised. Then he started — not loud, not flashy. Just a sharp crack of the snare, a light hi-hat tap, then a soft rolling pattern on the toms that gave the whole groove a heartbeat.

It was crisp and tight. Clean enough to hold structure, loose enough to breathe. Nick added a subtle ghost note — barely audible — that gave the rhythm a sexy stutter.

Blake’s foot started tapping in time. Then his guitar joined — riff looping in again, but with more intent now. He played it differently — letting the high notes ring a little longer, adding a little bluesy slide to the third bar. He grinned when Ethan dropped back in, his bass tighter now, syncing perfectly with Nick’s kick drum.

They found it — that moment musicians chase — the pocket.

No one spoke.

Nick built the rhythm into a subtle crescendo, adding off-beat cymbal hits, then pulling back just as fast. Ethan’s bass grew bolder, thumping with more groove, now sliding up the neck with ease. Blake switched between clean and slightly distorted tones, trying out a short lick between the main riff — a call-and-response feel. It wasn’t flashy. But it had soul.

“Yo, yo—wait,” Nick broke the trance, pointing a stick mid-rhythm. “Blake, that lick — play that again.”

Blake chuckled, replaying it, a teasing little hook at the end of the fourth bar.

“That’s it,” Ethan said, eyes lit. “Loop that into the chorus section.”

“Feels like a bridge almost,” Blake added, already adjusting his pedals for tone. “Could build into something punchier here, maybe open it up.”

Nick cracked a grin. “Like a breakdown?”

“Exactly.”

For the next few minutes, the three of them tossed pieces back and forth like seasoned improvisers in a jazz session. Nick started adding syncopation, a little faster now. Blake tested a muted strumming pattern underneath the main riff, then layered it with a melodic counter-line. Ethan adjusted his tone to cut through the drums more clearly, slapping the strings once in a while to give texture.

****************************************

Outside, the late afternoon sun filtered through the leafy branches of Resin Grove, casting long shadows over the quiet neighborhood. The streets were mostly empty — the kind of slow, drowsy Sunday where time felt like it had exhaled and stretched itself thin.

Zeke Bellamy walked alone down the sidewalk, hands tucked into the pockets of his grey hoodie, earbuds dangling unused around his neck. He wasn’t listening to music today. Not yet. He needed air more than sound — space to think, to clear his head.

His mind had been cluttered all day — footage from Friday night’s game playing on loop in his thoughts, missed tackles he should’ve made, patterns he should’ve read faster. And then, always in the background, that faint itch to write — a phrase he couldn’t quite shape into a full poem. It gnawed at the back of his brain, half-formed, restless.

As he passed a row of suburban houses — most quiet, some with lazy sprinklers ticking across yellowing grass — a sound caught his attention. Faint. Fuzzy.

Music.

Not the kind spilling from car speakers or someone’s playlist through an open window. This was different. Real. Alive. Unpolished in the best way.

Zeke slowed his steps, his head tilting. There was a rhythm to it — a tight, syncopated beat that slid under a slick, funky guitar riff. Something deep, almost hypnotic, pulsed beneath it all. Bass. Heavy and rich.

He followed it like a siren's call, weaving through back streets and across someone’s lawn without really thinking. The sound got clearer — still muffled by garage walls, but sharp enough to make his pulse respond. Whoever was playing, they weren’t amateurs jamming for fun. They were building something.

He turned the corner and spotted the source — a modest two-story house with a basketball hoop over the driveway and an old garage tucked at the back. The garage door was closed, but a faint yellow light spilled out from under it, and the music vibrated right through the walls. Like it wanted to escape.

Zeke stood on the sidewalk, one foot halfway off the curb, listening.

Inside, the rhythm shifted — the drummer added a new pattern, something quick and fluttering on the hi-hats, while the guitarist slid into a smooth descending lick that melted into a distorted crunch. The bass answered with a slap and a groove so deep it made Zeke’s shoulders move before he realized he was swaying.

His brow furrowed, curious. He recognized the house. It’s the Woodsen house.

So that meant that the drums is Nick Vale, The guitar…probably Blake Hartley. And the bass, Ethan.

“What the hell,” he muttered under his breath, a slow smile pulling at his lips. “They actually got rhythm.” He knew they liked music, but didn’t know they could play that well.

He crossed the yard, quiet as ever, and sat on the curb just outside the garage. He didn’t knock. Didn’t want to interrupt. He just sat there, letting the music wash over him.

There was something raw about it — not perfect, not polished — but real. Each of them feeding off each other, adjusting, riffing, chasing a vibe that wasn’t written down anywhere. Zeke closed his eyes and let the beat seep into him, his fingers tapping a rhythm on his knee without thinking.

And then — just for a moment — the words he’d been chasing all day started to take shape in his mind.

The music had found him first.

When the music stopped he stood up. Hesitantly, he walked over to the garage side door and knocked.

Inside, the three friends were confused.

“Are we expecting someone?” Blake asked.

“Not that I know of,” Ethan said as he reached for the door.

When he opened the door, they saw Zeke standing there, leaning from one foot to the other. It was obvious he felt like he shouldn’t be there.

“Hey, Zeke,” Blake greeted as he squinted his eyes.

The linebacker was the person from the football team that Blake and the basketball team got along with best, but they weren’t close and some tension from the teams rivalries lingered.

“Hey,” Zeke said, voice a bit rough, like he wasn’t sure if he was intruding or not. “Sorry. I, uh… was walking by. Heard you guys playing. Didn’t wanna interrupt, but… damn. That sounded good.”

Blake exchanged a glance with Ethan, then stepped aside. “Wanna come in?”

Zeke hesitated only a second before stepping through the doorway. The inside of the garage was humid with late-afternoon warmth and the lingering vibration of sound. Cables coiled like snakes at their feet, amps buzzed low, and the faint smell of old wood and teenage sweat filled the space. Posters of old bands — Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Clash, Jimi Hendrix — were tacked up on the garage walls.

“You guys sound like an actual band,” Zeke muttered as he looked around. “That pocket you found? Especially on the breakdown — that hit.”

“You mean this one?” Blake asked, lifting his guitar and playing the short, punchy lick he’d used to transition into the breakdown.

Zeke nodded slowly, arms crossed. “Yeah. That one. That hits.”

Nick bounced a drumstick between his hands. “Dude, you got an ear. You play anything?”

Zeke nodded. “The guitar, I also love writing.”

“Damn, I wish I was good at writing, so I could finish that goddamn school project already.” Blake said.

Ethan and Nick laughed out loud while Zeke asked, “The one with Vivi?”

Blake growled, “that one, how did you know?”

“The whole school knows, the football team seems to want Vivi to injure you, so you can’t play” Zeke replied

“You’re welcome to chill if you want. We’re just messing around, working out a few ideas.” Ethan offered.

Blake corrected. “We were actually trying to compose a song.” Then he furrowed his brow, “That sounds way too official.”

There was a pause — not awkward, just weighted — like the moment before someone decided whether to trust a group with a piece of themselves.

Zeke stepped closer, finally settling on an overturned amp near the wall. “You mind if I just sit for a bit?”

“Not at all,” Blake said, fingers idly strumming as the vibe shifted again, looser now. “You’re the first audience we’ve had.”