Noise

This is my entry for Becks' photo contest. Harsh reviews are appreciated, I think it might need them. I'm sort of iffy on this piece. I like the idea of it, I do, but I'm not sure if I've conveyed it well enough. Thoughts?

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I always hated silence, I still do. I didn’t like its oppressiveness, I didn’t like the way that you never knew what was happening when everything was silent. My parents never fought during my childhood, not once. They never shouted at each other, they just bottled everything up inside. When I was young, very young, our house was completely quiet. It shook with the force of buried feelings and repressed anger. My parents would walk round the house, not talking, while I sat on the sofa and watched them with confused eyes. Yes, our house was silent, until I learnt how to fill up the silence. Until I realized that the noise was up to me, if my parents weren’t going to fight the quiet then I’d have to do it on my own.

I was a city girl, all the way. I liked to fall asleep listening to car horns blaring, and I liked to wake up to the sound of people on the streets starting their day. I liked the sound of tired feet slapping the pavement as people rose up and walked to the nearest tube station. I loved the sound of engines starting, the gentle rumbling that never failed to wake me up in the morning. Yes, I was a city girl. I liked noise; I needed noise the entire time. Silence scared me, it panicked me. I didn’t know what to do in silence. I hadn’t let things be silent in such a long time. Sedatephobia, I think that’s called. The phobia of silence.

We had just moved to this village, my parents and I. It was in the middle of nowhere. I hated it. I hated the silence, the people and the fact that they all knew each other. Me? I was just the city girl who had invaded their perfect village lives. I didn’t like the school either. It was so small compared to what I was used to; I felt like I was being barricaded in, hidden from the outside world by cream painted walls. And I hated the silence there. So much of my time was spent trying to break up the silence. I would have my iPod on continuously, drowning out the quiet with music blaring in my ears. And, when music wasn’t an option, I would just talk non-stop, chattering away to my parents frantically, as they sat chewing their food without replying. They were used to it; they had learnt to block me out. Or I would shout, I would shout and scream. I wanted people to shout back at me, so that it was noisier, but my mum and dad never did. My parents welcomed the quiet. I was left alone, waging my own private war against the silence.

And then, one day, about a month after we moved there, it snowed. I was lying in bed, with my earphones in, when my mum knocked on my door and entered my room in her work clothes.
“School’s out,” she said, “I need to go to work. Will you be ok?”
“Oh, cool! I’ll be fine.” I replied, casually turning my back on her and cranking up the volume on my iPod. We didn’t get on in those days. That was another reason I liked noise so much, it stopped me thinking about the sad things in my life. Silence gave me space to consider, to reflect, and I didn’t want that. I never wanted that.
“Well, have a nice day, dear.” My mum’s voice was quiet over the music, but not entirely gone.
“Mmhmm,” I mumbled, rolling onto my back as the door closed behind me.

And then I was alone in the house. It was just me: me, my music, and silence. I had to do something. I needed to do something to break the enveloping silence that threatened me. I had to get up, go out, and do something. There weren’t any shops or cafes there, but I thought were always possibilities as soon as you got out. I ran downstairs, thumping the steps as loud as I possibly could.

I grabbed my dad’s wellies at the door. The soles were crusted with old mud; my dad rarely wore them and a cleaning was even rarer. But, nevertheless, I slipped my too small feet into them and opened the door resolutely. I was going to walk somewhere, anywhere. I was going to tramp through fields cracked with ice and I was going to shake off the frost from freezing trees. I was going to sing at the top of my voice as I raced through the fields.

The air was cold, bitingly so. It burrowed inside my flimsy jumper and nestled in all the crooks and crannies of my body. My feet were too small for my dad’s wellies, they couldn’t fill up the space and warm up the air around them. I had to wrap my arms around myself to stop the shivers that crept all around my body.

I ran down my road, and then stopped at the first gate I came to. It was frosty, very frosty. I ran my hands over its surface and grimaced as tiny splinters pricked my hands as they moved across the wood. It wasn’t painful, but the spikes felt strange on my slightly numb hands. I should’ve worn gloves. There were trees to the left of me, and through them I could see the sun struggling in the foggy sky. It had the crisp freshness of the morning, and the trees in front of it were cast in a faint orange light. Snow was everywhere. It hung off branches which bent towards the floor under the weight. It frosted the wall which I had run alongside, making it dimly reflect the sunlight.

It was a moment before I realised that my music had stopped. My earplugs were now stuffed uselessly in my ears. Blocking out the sound from beyond that wasn’t even there. I fumbled in my pocket for a second, but when I bought my iPod out the screen was blank. I didn’t mind, there were always ways to stop the silence. Sure, listening to music was the best option, but it was nice to change things now and again.

Then I started to sing. I didn’t have a good voice, the pitch was generally lost by the second verse, and lots of words were replaced with exuberant ‘la’s, but I didn’t care. I belted out a tune, standing there alone in a field. My breath rose in quick bursts of steam above me, and my voice rocked around the frosty trees. I was trying to get rid of the silence; I was trying to hold it all back with only my voice. It worked inside, indoors when my voice could echo round walls and fill up the small spaces in an instant. But being outdoors was different, my voice never ended; it flew from me quickly and just stopped the silence for an instant. So I had to keep on singing to myself, louder and louder. Until I was just shouting out the words in a hope they’d stay with me.

I had to stop in the end. I had run out of songs, and I was gasping for breath. The words had started to mush together, becoming a wordless shout as my throat began to crack. It was too cold to sing. And then, after I stopped, I heard a noise behind me. I turned around; I had been leaning back against the gate before, and saw a boy walking towards me through the field. His hands were stuffed deep in his pockets, and his brow was furrowed in concentration under ragged brown hair.
It was you. Your lips were puckered and you were whistling, whistling that tune. The notes were faint in the morning air, but they were still discernable. I leant there, out of breath, staring as you meandered towards me. You looked up and our eyes met for a second, brown against brown, before you lowered your eyes and carried on with the tune. It was soft, slow and beautiful.

I listened for a minute or so. I’m sure that it felt like longer back then, but it can’t have been because you stopped as soon as you reached the gate I was leaning on.
“Hi,” I said slowly, shy for once in my life. You didn’t reply, and the silence between us felt heavy. I didn’t know what to do. Usually in those situations the person would reply back, and I could take up the time will meaningless small talk that nevertheless could fill up silent spaces with ease. I was the master of talking usually, I had to be or else people would lapse into silence.

“So, what are you –. “ I tried to start again, but you finally raised your head and put a finger to your lips, smiling slightly. The universal signal for quiet.

“What?” I asked loudly, “This isn’t a library, you know.”

For a moment I thought that you wouldn’t reply again. But your mouth curved upwards and opened.

“No, but you’re kind of disturbing the peace.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s the point. Anyway, there’s no-one else around.” I was excited now; there was the possibility of an argument, of lots of noise.

“Then why do you need to shout?” You looked quizzical and I knew that it was a real question.

“Because I don’t like the silence.” I didn’t mind telling you, I told anyone who asked me. Generally they just laughed.

“That doesn’t mean you have to fight it.”

Before I could speak, before I could reply, your head lowered and you started up your tune again. And it wasn’t silent, not by any means, but it wasn’t loud either. It wasn’t fighting against the silence, just keeping it gently at bay. You began to walk away, stuffing your hands in your pockets again and making your slow way back across the field. I wanted to shout after you, but I didn’t think you’d like that. I could still hear the tune as you walked; I always wonder if you’d made it slightly louder, just so that I could hear it. But I don’t know, maybe the wind was just blowing in my direction.

I walked home soon after you left. I didn’t sing on the way. I didn’t shout either. I would have whistled your tune; I would have if I could whistle. But I never could whistle. I still can’t. So on that day I just hummed it. The tune wasn’t perfect, by no means, but it was near enough for me. I stuffed my hands in my pockets like you did, and walked slowly up the road humming your soft tune with a smile.

I still hum your tune, even now. Sometimes I’ll take out my iPod, which I always charge, and hum quietly to myself. I think I’ve got the notes perfect now; I’ve had ten years of practice. And I always, always hum it with a smile on my face. I don’t fight the silence anymore, but I don’t accept it either. I try to do what you did, what you might have wanted me to do. I hum and I gently keep the silence at bay.


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Thanks in advance!

~Amy

Hi Aqua!

Overall this was a pretty piece. The idea seemed original, and this is one of those works that don't need to be full of action to be interesting. There were some things that left me a little confused.

First of all, you have two forces supporting the story: remembering things and the silence. It makes everything a bit crowded, and you didn't manage to carry on the remembering thing throughout the story, like you did with the silence. The opening paragraph is all about remembering. Then you sort of abandon it and move on to the silence. In the middle of the story somewhere, you have the words "I remember", but still, it mostly lies forgotten. What I imagine happened is that you thought of two pretty aspects and instead of saving one for later, you decided to use both. And sure, the silence thing makes a story easier than the remembering thing, and yes, I figure the remembering thing steps out in the end – after all, the narrator is looking back at what happened years ago, so of course that's reminiscing and remembering. It just doesn't come forward as much as it should if you want to have it as one of the themes.

Then, we have the MC who hates silence. That is very interesting and something that kept the story together. However, you could have some more background to it – why exactly is the silence so unbearable? You mention that she's a city girl and has always lived someplace where there is no silence. It's fine and makes sense, but really seems more like an excuse. In my opinion it's too weak an explanation and doesn't really offer the readers anything – I imagine it would be a lot more fascinating if, say, the MC was locked in a basement alone when she was little or something. The readers do acknowledge her dislike toward the silence, but they're not getting anywhere unless you tell them more.

I was excited now; there was the possibility of an argument, of lots of noise.

This was a good touch and I'm glad you came up with this.

I would chatter away to my parents franticly, as they sat silently at the table chewing their food without replying.

I believe it's spelled "frantically", and the second part of this sentence is a bit jumbly; you could try rewording.

“School’s out,” she said hurriedly, glancing at her watch before looking at me.

Why hurriedly? The bolded part seemed unnecessary to me.

It was a moment before I realised that my music had stopped. My earplugs were now stuffed uselessly in my ears. Blocking out the sound from beyond that wasn’t even there. I fumbled in my pocket for a second, but when I bought my iPod out the screen was blank. I didn’t mind, there were always ways to stop the silence. Sure, listening to music was the best option, but it was nice to change things now and again.

Again, bolded part is unneeded and redundant.


So I guess it might seem that I didn't like the piece. That is not the case; despite all these points, this was pleasant to read and flowed well. Also, in the outside scenes I could imagine the environment quite clearly. Although, now that I think of it, my bridge wasn't like the bridge in the contest picture, but oh well. I hope you take into consideration what I had to say about this. Good luck in the contest!


Demeter
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Oh, thanks Dems! I think I'll take out the original first paragraph and switch it with someone about her hate of silence. Merci!

~Amy

Hey =]

I really enjoyed reading this piece and you managed to hold my attention the whole way through.

I liked that, although it was sort of a sad story because of her constant battle with silence, it had a happy ending. You could have made this story really depressing, because of your MC's need for noise, but you didn't and I thank you for that =] Her whole struggle to keep the silence at bay was believable too, as I sometimes find the silence unsettling.

I only found one mistake;

I would shot and scream

I think you meant for 'shot' to be 'shout'

The decriptions you used when your MC was outside were brilliant and I could really picture where she was. Also, it really seemed like your MC was talking directly to me, even though it's obvious in your piece that the 'you' she is referring to is the boy she meets.

Thanks for a great read and good luck in the contest!

xDudettex

Hey Aqua!
I'll review your piece today.

So...this is really well written and interesting. I like the originality of the piece and how you managed to keep the reader's attention all through the story. Your descriptions were excellent, I really think you gave us a clear view of everything. Not only the outside but also some of her internal issues which is great. Your pace was good, it's short story and many people tend to rush into the interesting part, but you paced everything really well.

Now for your character. I really liked her, your characterization was excellent because you made us relate to the character, see who she was through her actions and thoughts. But...she hates silence we know. But why does she hate it? Does she have a background to it? Why does she think it is so uncomfortable?

My parents never fought during my childhood, not once. They never shouted at each other, they just bottled everything up inside. When I was young, very young, our house was completely quiet. It was silent, but it shook with the force of buried feelings and repressed anger. My parents would walk round the house, not talking, while I sat on the sofa and watched them with confused eyes.

I like this part, I really do. But...I think you just left it there.This could be a really great part if you expanded it a little more, not here but maybe through out the story and show us how this affected her.

And that's all I can say.

XOXO
Pudin

Hi Amy,

At first I found myself getting quite bogged down in the writing here, which I think is suffering from a case of redundant redundancy, but as I read on I started to get caught up in the characterisation. I also enjoyed the description and imagery, which created a vivid and authentic feeling of a winter morning for me. Ultimately, I enjoyed the story much more than I thought I would and the ending warmed the cockles of my black, bitter heart.

The redundancy is a major problem here. I can’t tell if you were shooting for a certain wordcount target, but it definitely reads to me like you were adding wordcount for the sake of wordcount. Ideas are restated three or four times phrased in different ways, sentence structures are repeated several times, and so on. I think you could cut this by a good half and come out with a tighter, fresher, better story. Let me take one paragraph as an example of where you could cut excess and/or repetitive words.

I was a city girl, all the way. I liked to fall asleep listening to car horns blaring, and I liked to wake up to the sound of people on the streets starting their day. I liked the sound of tired feet slapping the pavementas people rose up and walked to the nearest tube station. I loved the sound of engines starting, the gentle rumbling that never failed to wake me up in the morning. Yes, I was a city girl. I liked noise; I needed noise the entire time.Silence scared me, it panicked me. I didn’t know what to do in silence.I hadn’t let things be silent in such a long time. Sedatephobia, I think that’s called. The phobia of silence.

What we’re left with:

I was a city girl. I liked to wake up to the sound of people starting their day, feet slapping the pavement, engines starting. Silence scared me; I hadn’t let things be silent in such a long time. Sedatephobia, I think that’s called. The phobia of silence.

This is <50 words, so less than half the length of your original 125-word paragraph, and I think it conveys the exact same information.

I’d also be wary of explaining things too much. I read Browne & King’s Self-Editing for Fiction Writers recently, and I liked their maxim, RUE: Resist the Urge to Explain. The problem is that we readers like a little exercise for our minds, and when the author explains too much to us, we feel quite patronised -- like we’re kids who have to have an adult peering over our shoulder pointing out all the clever bits to us. For example, you explicitly link the narrator’s fear of silence to the oppressive silence in her house as a child. That’s a clever bit, and it will look much cleverer when allowed to stand alone. I think a little subtlety would go a long way here. RUE.

On a final note, I thought your writing suffered a little from overuse of the first-person pronoun. Sentences can become quite repetitive when it’s all “I did this” and “I felt that”. It’s also a filtering technique, keeping us at a distance from the story. Try rearranging sentences and cutting pronouns.

The characterisation is good, and I enjoyed the meeting with the nameless boy at the end. This scene is warm and moving without being saccharine -- I admire that.

Hope this helped.

Cheers,
Karsten

PS: A few line edits are attached.

Sorry it took me so long to get to this, life kind of happened! Anyways, I just wanted to say that I looooved it! My gosh, I wish I was able to write this well when I was your age. Heck, I wish I was able to write this well now! You're so talented!

My only critique and it is soo minor:

I didn’t mind telling him, I told anyone who asked me.

Up until this point you have referred to him as you. This is the only place you slipped up but it definitely was noticeable. I think you should change it to you, just to keep things consistent.

Other than that, I absolutely loved this piece! You're totally getting a like from me! Keep writing!