Hannah Stewart (18)
On Corner of 9th and Écoute
The Sound arose from the corner of 9th and Écoute in unison with the yellow sun. No one could remember exactly when it had arrived; once it appeared, it seemed to have existed there forever. It put on a new guise each day. Wednesday it dressed in the sound of boisterous child’s play, Friday, the gushing noise of an angry waterfall, and Tuesday, the gentle ripple of an infinitely ascending arpeggio. Today it was something of a whistle. It seemed to have an urgency in alerting all passersby of its presence, as though it were a worried train.
Life existed around the Sound, and sometimes stopped by to appreciate it. Mrs. O’Alby made a special point of pulling her tiny sweatered chihuahua from its daily walking trail onto 9th and Écoute each afternoon. She regarded the Sound with beady eyes and a voyeuristic glare until she was satisfied with her assessment. Then she would proclaim her daily critique. “Hmmph, adequate volume, I suppose it squeals a tad louder than my hot-headed teapot. Nevertheless, could use some body to its shrillness.” Proud of her public service, she strutted down the sidewalk like a narcissistic Mother Teresa.
Don Mayeford puttered near the Sound all day. He worked as a handyman, ducking in and out of the shops that lined 9th and Écoute and fixing all their various impediments: a jammed doorknob, burned-out lightbulb, clogged toilet. He was quick with a wrench and wore his tool belt like a medallion, proud of his deft ability. The Sound was humorous to him. He had grown used to its chameleon effects and found they added some much-needed spice to his otherwise monotonous routine. Sometimes he would stop by the Sound and cheer it on. Today he chuckled, “Woo! You tell ‘em, give ‘em that whistle!” Happy with their congenial relationship, he would stroll away laughing, “That thing ain’t never gonna stop.”
There were those who despised the Sound with every ounce of their being. Elisa Priverford with her pink satin jacket and beige heels would not even look in the direction of the Sound as she passed by 9th and Écoute. She pristinely faced forward like a horse with blinders on either side of it, Gucci sunglasses overtop her spa-glowing skin. “That thing is an obnoxious nuisance with no right to be here,” she would rant over Chardonnay in her rolling backyard. “Absolutely disgusting disturbance of our sound quality. I will see to its removal one day, I swear.” Her gold-leafed neighbours and fellow cucumber-eyed country club members shared her wrath. They vehemently agreed to one day dispose of the pollution that invaded every corner of their Prada-painted lives.
And then, there was one, who saw the Sound for what it really was. Little John D. Hayes was strolling along the famed 9th and Écoute with his mother one day for the very first time. He darted to and fro, skipping over the sidewalk cracks with a cheerful hop and song. His mother, Jane, tried to keep him as close as she could, but his rambunctious monkey instincts kept him far from her grasp. He pointed at the store windows and pressed his red cheeks against their glory, leaving smudges on each one. The store owners grimaced as they polished away the smears, yet couldn’t help but smile at his sheer joy. And then suddenly, John stopped. Tears streamed down his tiny cheeks, which grew redder by the moment. Jane rushed forward to her child, face curdled with worry.
“What is it, my dear, what’s wrong?” she asked, drying his face.
“Momma, the woman, the woman, is she okay?”
“Why, John, don’t be silly, there’s no woman here. What do you mean?”
“Yes, Momma, I see her. Right there, look! There she is now, in the tiny part.”
“Oh, John. That is not a woman, that is just the Sound. Don’t worry. See, listen, it sounds like a train today.”
“Oh, Momma, but all I can hear is her crying. She sounds like me when I feel down and did an owie to my knee.”
“Now, John, let’s hurry along now. We have to get to the dentist by 12:00. You have an appointment, remember.”
“But Momma, the woman!”
On Corner of 9th and Écoute
The Sound arose from the corner of 9th and Écoute in unison with the yellow sun. No one could remember exactly when it had arrived; once it appeared, it seemed to have existed there forever. It put on a new guise each day. Wednesday it dressed in the sound of boisterous child’s play, Friday, the gushing noise of an angry waterfall, and Tuesday, the gentle ripple of an infinitely ascending arpeggio. Today it was something of a whistle. It seemed to have an urgency in alerting all passersby of its presence, as though it were a worried train.
Life existed around the Sound, and sometimes stopped by to appreciate it. Mrs. O’Alby made a special point of pulling her tiny sweatered chihuahua from its daily walking trail onto 9th and Écoute each afternoon. She regarded the Sound with beady eyes and a voyeuristic glare until she was satisfied with her assessment. Then she would proclaim her daily critique. “Hmmph, adequate volume, I suppose it squeals a tad louder than my hot-headed teapot. Nevertheless, could use some body to its shrillness.” Proud of her public service, she strutted down the sidewalk like a narcissistic Mother Teresa.
Don Mayeford puttered near the Sound all day. He worked as a handyman, ducking in and out of the shops that lined 9th and Écoute and fixing all their various impediments: a jammed doorknob, burned-out lightbulb, clogged toilet. He was quick with a wrench and wore his tool belt like a medallion, proud of his deft ability. The Sound was humorous to him. He had grown used to its chameleon effects and found they added some much-needed spice to his otherwise monotonous routine. Sometimes he would stop by the Sound and cheer it on. Today he chuckled, “Woo! You tell ‘em, give ‘em that whistle!” Happy with their congenial relationship, he would stroll away laughing, “That thing ain’t never gonna stop.”
There were those who despised the Sound with every ounce of their being. Elisa Priverford with her pink satin jacket and beige heels would not even look in the direction of the Sound as she passed by 9th and Écoute. She pristinely faced forward like a horse with blinders on either side of it, Gucci sunglasses overtop her spa-glowing skin. “That thing is an obnoxious nuisance with no right to be here,” she would rant over Chardonnay in her rolling backyard. “Absolutely disgusting disturbance of our sound quality. I will see to its removal one day, I swear.” Her gold-leafed neighbours and fellow cucumber-eyed country club members shared her wrath. They vehemently agreed to one day dispose of the pollution that invaded every corner of their Prada-painted lives.
And then, there was one, who saw the Sound for what it really was. Little John D. Hayes was strolling along the famed 9th and Écoute with his mother one day for the very first time. He darted to and fro, skipping over the sidewalk cracks with a cheerful hop and song. His mother, Jane, tried to keep him as close as she could, but his rambunctious monkey instincts kept him far from her grasp. He pointed at the store windows and pressed his red cheeks against their glory, leaving smudges on each one. The store owners grimaced as they polished away the smears, yet couldn’t help but smile at his sheer joy. And then suddenly, John stopped. Tears streamed down his tiny cheeks, which grew redder by the moment. Jane rushed forward to her child, face curdled with worry.
“What is it, my dear, what’s wrong?” she asked, drying his face.
“Momma, the woman, the woman, is she okay?”
“Why, John, don’t be silly, there’s no woman here. What do you mean?”
“Yes, Momma, I see her. Right there, look! There she is now, in the tiny part.”
“Oh, John. That is not a woman, that is just the Sound. Don’t worry. See, listen, it sounds like a train today.”
“Oh, Momma, but all I can hear is her crying. She sounds like me when I feel down and did an owie to my knee.”
“Now, John, let’s hurry along now. We have to get to the dentist by 12:00. You have an appointment, remember.”
“But Momma, the woman!”
….
So the Sound sat ignored by some, repulsing to others, refigured to all but one. She was dressed in rags tearing apart at every seam. Her smell was revolting and came from deep within her skin. She cried each day, pitifully, desperately. For food, a warm jacket, work of any kind. She had arrived nearly 6 years ago, after the death of her mother, and cried ever since. But the good people of the town with 9th and Écoute were quite imaginative. They molded her pain like putty until it was what they wanted to hear. Slowly she faded into the wall and all that was left of her was noise, noise that bounced off indifferent ears and hardened hearts and landed each night in the gutter.
But today, it was nothing more than a whistle.
Hannah Stewart is a young writer from Seattle, Washington. She loves nothing more than to capture the strangeness and wonder of this life in words. She plans to study neuroscience at Seattle Pacific University in the fall and hopes to continue with her passion for writing as well.