Sound Fruit Novels & Stories

Then it came again, longer this time, it was soft and sweet, and I found myself smiling, though I was not sure why. “Sapphire, what is that sound?” “It’s a bird.” Her tone was tired, and I knew she needed to sleep. “It’s singing. Birds communicate by chirping and singing.” “It’s so beautiful.” I laid there, just enjoying the melody. Leaves moved nearby and my eyes snapped open again, my head rolling to the side and my gaze landing on a small, furry animal. It was round, with tall ears and a nose that was moving up and down quickly. As I watched, it froze, starring back at me, before turning and racing away at an amazing speed. It was cute but clearly not a threat since it was now gone.

“One more. You’re doing great, Rae.” “And… and sweat.” “Okay. Give me four things you hear.” I trained my ears out onto the world, locking on to the sounds. “I hear your car engine.” Michael snickered. “All right. Good one. Three more.” “I hear your classical music turned down. And your tires on the road.” “One more. You can do it.” I drew in my first steady breath as the sound hit my ears. “I still hear the sirens behind us.” Michael paused. “Three things you taste.”

I say. “You sound calm about that.” “I’m prioritizing accuracy.” “That’s becoming deeply irritating.” “Good. Irritation disrupts fixation.” She exhales sharply through her nose, almost laughing despite herself. The sound disappears too quickly into the stillness. Wrong. Even echoes feel controlled here now. Another sound. This time to the left. A soft shift through leaves. Again—perfectly timed. Not threatening. Measured. It doesn’t want fear. It wants recognition. “It’s learning nuance,” I say.

*CRUNCH. The sound was different this time. Not the clean impact on a knee, but the sickening, muffled crack of bone breaking under layers of clothing and muscle. He screamed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound of agony, the knife clattering harmlessly to the floor as his arm hung uselessly at a grotesque angle.

I plugged the chord in my phone and my worst nightmare happens. I think about you. Do you think I have forgotten? Do you- I unplug the the aux.. my cheeks growing hot by the second. "Why'd you turn it off?" "That wasn't what I wanted to play. Wait- let me get the song." I check for one of my faves and then plug the aux back in. Well I know when you're around cause I know the sound I know the sound of your heart. 'The sound' by The 1975 plays and I look at Mason.

The sound is a weaponized resonance, engineered to detonate the silver curse and obliterate the elders into fine powder along with anyone listening. The destructive sonic wave threatens to tear our eardrums apart, turning the sacred assembly hall into a screaming vortex of shattered metal and high-frequency agony. I grit my teeth against the blinding pain in my temples, raising my arm to shield my face as jagged fragments of silver rain down across the dais like deadly shrapnel.

Which would be cruel and unpleasant, but I’d get over it. Within a few minutes of walking, the tremors had subsided, and the smell of sulphur had faded away leaving an earthy, damp tang in the air. A new sound emerged. A rhythmic beat — thrum, thrum, thrum — like the pounding of distant war drums. And over it a voice sang in a high falsetto: We're leaving together, But still it's farewell And maybe we'll come back To earth, who can tell?

Then, Nora looked at Elia, who held the data-cube open, its amber shell glowing like a miniature sun. ​Nora placed the bone-flute to her lips. She didn't play a melody of war. She played the sound she had heard in the deep veins of the Earth—the sound of the tide, the sound of the wind through the cedar, and the sound of a father’s heartbeat. ​The Song of the Refraction ​The note was a single, pure frequency that bypassed the ears and vibrated in the marrow. As the sound hit the data-cube, the "Source Code" caught it and magnified it a million times over.

The sound was like a blade on a whetstone, screeching, rhythmic, and agonizingly deliberate. Scratch. Scratch. Pause. Drag. Julian squinted, tracing the pattern of the gouges in the rock. It wasn't just a sound; it was a desperate, primal form of communication. But before he could decipher the jagged lines, a soft, dry chuckle echoed from the shadows behind him—a sound as crisp and brittle as dead leaves in autumn.

The sound of broken furniture, screams and cries create a very unpleasant combination of sounds. It was too bad that the sound of rocks disrupted Nathan's intention to get out of here.