Beneath the glassy surface, the currents throb with strange human magic. Harsh, overwhelming synth music drones from the sunken speakers above, pulsing through the water like a storm in my bones. It tangles in my hair, rattles my scales, and makes the whole ocean taste like metal. #UmbrellaAcadamy

The tall humans toss the strange, jiggly orb — it explodes mid-leap, and slo-mo squirting sounds fill the air. Cool droplets land on my whiskers. I lick them. Not fish. Disappointing. I chase the biggest splash anyway. #ClosedCaptions #bb27

In the gilt ballroom, a hush fell—then the band exploded. A cornet riff tore through the velvet air, sharp and wicked. Fans froze mid-flutter. Teacups rattled. Even Lady Hathersby’s toe betrayed her, tapping once beneath layers of silk and disapproval.

Typos can make things better. #LoveIslandUSA #ClosedCaptions #typo #spelling #SuckNotFuck

Alluring vocalization, often sexualized or diminished under patriarchy, is reclaimed by feminism as a form of power and self-expression. A woman’s voice is not for others’ pleasure but a tool of agency, resistance, and identity. Embracing its allure is a radical act of autonomy. #Netflix #Sirens

Contemplative music is the breath before the clash, the howl of distant seas. Heavy drums, mournful horns, and cold winds stir the spirit. It summons warriors to remember their blood, their oaths, and the battles yet carved in the bones of fate. #You #Netflix

I watched my client finally smile after weeks of hard sessions. Buoyant music rises lightly in my mind, like a small celebration. Healing isn’t loud — sometimes it’s just the quiet lift when someone starts to believe things can get better. #Pulse #Netflix

I checked my watch. Another late mourner shuffled in, all apologies. Dark tones rise and fade out as I close the chapel doors behind them. Perfect. Nothing says “eternal rest” like a soundtrack that sounds like the dead might get back up. #Pulse #Netflix

Rolled up to the abandoned mall, board in hand, crew behind me. Place looked wrecked — broken glass, graffiti. Dramatic, ominous electronic music plays from somebody’s busted speaker. Whole thing felt sketch, like we were about to drop into some no-turning-back kinda mission. #BattleCamp #Netflix

In the hidden lounges of Seraphine’s Court, where whispered deals shape empires, ethereal sitar music coils through the air—lulling rivals into a daze while the true players move unseen, slipping promises and betrayals like daggers beneath velvet words.

Oxymoron.

On a rooftop at dusk, the city buzzes below. Chill percussive music taps along—hand drums, chimes, and someone’s neighbor trying to join in with a rogue tambourine. Nobody stops them. It’s too chill for drama.

Elira pressed her fingers to the resonance stone, releasing breathy oscillating tones that shimmered through the cavern. The sound stirred the ancient glyphs, each wavering note a whisper of forgotten magic. When the last tone faded, the stone answered with a pulse of light and a low, echoing hum.

“Mock squealing” is the exaggerated, often high-pitched sound people make to playfully imitate fear, excitement or surprise—usually in a sarcastic or funny way. It lives somewhere between parody and play and is often accompanied by flailing hands or an exaggerated expression to really sell the bit.

That guitar riff was so sick, it called out of work to stay in bed with a thermometer in its strings. It shredded so hard, it gave the amp a fever and made the drummer question his life choices. Honestly, if that riff walked into a hospital, the other patients would get up and leave out of respect.

Smoke choked the battlefield as the sun bled through the haze, casting shadows over fallen soldiers. Amid the chaos, a lone fife wailed, its dramatic melody cutting through the roar of cannons. The piercing notes stirred the weary troops, a haunting call to one final, desperate charge.

Muffled upbeat gospel music drifts through the walls, somewhere between a Sunday service and a dance party. The bass thumps with holy enthusiasm, tambourines shake and every so often, a passionate hallelujah bursts through, as if someone just won the spiritual lottery.

Chaotic klezmer music is a whirlwind of wailing clarinets, screeching violins, and blaring brass, tumbling through frantic tempos and clashing harmonies. The rhythm lurches unpredictably, held together by the wheezing accordion and thumping bass, creating a joyous, reckless storm of sound.

He leaned against a pillar, eyes sharp beneath his hat. The scent of coffee and newsprint was in the air as the announcement chimes rang out, three notes echoing melodically through the terminal. The voice droned on, but he had already spotted his mark—a dark figure clutching a bag. The hunt was on.

Pamela Hemphill was sentenced to 60 days in prison and three years of probation for her role in the Jan. 6 riot at the Capitol. She did not want a pardon because she said it would be “an insult to the Capitol Police.”

The circus tent echoed with maniacal laughter as the clown crossed the stage, his painted grin wide. His oversized shoes slapped against the floor, each step amplifying the eerie silence. The audience sat frozen in uneasy anticipation, unsure if his joy was real or something more sinister.

The fire whooshes to life, nearly singing off my eyebrows. He smirks, unfazed, lounging like some kind of model. “Smooth,” he teases, while I pat my forehead to make sure I still have hair. The flames crackle, the mood almost romantic—if not for the fact that I now smell slightly of burnt dignity.

The phonograph needle scratches harshly against the old record, rough as a tumbleweed in a dust storm. Jed winced and lifted the arm, but the damage was done—the tune now skipped like boot tracks on a saloon floor. With a sigh, he ran a finger over the groove, reckonin’ time had worn this one down.

Steve imitates blood gushing with his hands, flailing dramatically as the group stares in awkward silence. “I’m dying!” he cries, collapsing onto the couch. “No, Steve,” someone mutters, “you’re just ruining game night.”

Hark, gentle listener… (breathes heavily into microphone) Dost thou perceive the weight of mine breath, a tempest loosed upon this fragile device? Such is the burden of truth, which I must now impart with trembling voice and fervent heart.

The creature loomed, its growl rumbling deep, then suddenly let out a loud, fake farting noise. The absurd sound echoed, freezing everyone in stunned disbelief, before it bared jagged teeth in a mocking, menacing grin.

He stared in gobsmacked silence, his mind struggling to piece together what he was seeing. None of it made sense—how could this even be possible? The numbers, the messages, the timestamps—they all pointed to something he didn’t want to believe. His lips moved as if to speak, but no words came out.

“Enough,” she hissed, slamming the file on the desk with a force that made the room go still. Her eyes burned as she leaned forward. “If you knew what was in here, you wouldn’t be so careless. Fix it—before it’s too late.”

Beneath the moon, your laughter rings, A joy that only true love brings. With playful jest, a sound imparts— Imitates farts squelching, steals my heart. For quirks like this, I hold you dear, In love, both sweet and strange appear.

In the dim office, the PHOTOCOPIER HATCH CLANKING shut echoed like a gavel pronouncing judgment. Mark wiped his palms on his slacks, his eyes darting toward the door. He had been warned not to use the machine for personal copies, but who would ever find out about a few extra pages?

Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, slow and deliberate, the ICE RATTLING against the crystal with each subtle tilt. The sound lingered in the space between them, a tension that matched her knowing smile. She leaned closer, her voice a low whisper, carrying promises laced with danger and desire

CRINKLING THUD resounds, Footsteps on a brittle path— Shadows watch unseen.

The city buzzed with life—VEHICLE RUMBLING, HORN HONKS, and the chatter of passing crowds. Amid the chaos, a bird on a lamppost chirped, as if to remind the world that not all music comes from machines.

WOOFING LIKE A DOGduring a serious discussion is utterly unprofessional and disruptive. This juvenile behavior undermines your credibility and the focus of others. Conduct yourself with the maturity and respect expected in this setting.

He slammed the door, the sound reverberating through the tiny apartment. She was still there, SINGING that RUSSIAN LULLABY as if nothing had happened, her voice sweet and mocking. It grated on him, each note digging deeper, a pointed reminder of how easily she dismissed the chaos she’d caused.

The TRAIN WHEELS CLACKING against the rails created a steady rhythm, echoing through the countryside as the landscape blurred past in streaks of green and gold.

The JAIL CELL DOOR CLOSES —clang, a jagged seam, splitting air, splitting time. Rust-tasting echoes spiral, caught in walls that do not yield. Freedom dissolves like mist in iron jaws, light bends, crushed into shadow’s arms. The door closes, and the silence grows teeth.

As the heavy door creaked open, a mouse darted from the shadows, its nose twitching with curiosity. When it reached the crumb of bread left carelessly on the floor, it sniffed once, then emitted an UNIMPRESSED SQUEAK. Apparently, the offering wasn’t to its taste, leaving the room silent once more.

The lights dimmed, and then—boom—a SICK GUITAR RIFF blasted out, totally shredding like a wave at sunrise. The guitarist cruised into the spotlight, fingers flying like he was carving the gnarliest barrel. The crowd was riding the vibe, throwing up horns like they’d just caught the perfect swell.

He sits alone at the table. On the screen, she LAUGHS EXAGGERATEDLY at her own joke, throwing her head back the way she always did, as if the world itself was funny enough to save. He tries to smile, but the sound of her laughter cuts through him, a cruel echo of everything he’s lost.

The room was quiet, shadows still, A heavy hush, the air to fill. But then—a spark, a lively sway— UPBEAT JAZZ STARTS PLAYING away Trumpets flare, a saxophone hums, The rhythm wakes where silence numbs The night, alive, finds joy in the staying, All because upbeat jazz starts playing

The DOORS CRASH OPEN, FOOTSTEPS echoing as she strides in, rain-soaked and breathless. Her dress clings to every curve, her eyes locking onto his with a spark that makes the storm outside seem tame. Each step draws them closer, the tension crackling like thunder.

The room erupts in laughter as Emma GRUNTS IN FRUSTRATION, hopping around like a deranged kangaroo in a boxing match gone wrong. Her team stares blankly until someone yells, “Rabbit wrestler?” Emma collapses in mock defeat, muttering, “Close enough,” as the chaos turns into uncontrollable giggles.

A group of people began LAUGHING as they watched a HORSE URINATING with surprising intensity. The sheer volume, duration, and the horse’s casual demeanor turned the mundane act into an unexpectedly funny spectacle.

Suddenly, a chilling revelation struck, and his breath caught—eyes widening in realization. A DRAMATIC TONE PLAYS, THEN FADES, leaving only an eerie silence to fill the void, as if the room itself was holding its breath for what was to come.

As she tiptoed through the old house, the FLOORBOARD CREAKS were so loud she half-expected the neighbors to call and ask if everything was okay. She froze with each step only to trip over a loose rug and land with a thud that even the ghosts probably found embarrassing.

In the quiet bookstore, she wandered the aisles with PENSIVE POP MUSIC PLAYING softly overhead, wondering why every song sounded like it was judging her life choices. By the third chorus about “finding yourself,” she was seriously considering buying a self-help book just to make the music stop.

The café was dimly lit, with the hum of quiet conversation blending into the SULTRY JAZZ MUSIC PLAYING in the background. The saxophone’s smoky notes curled through the air, setting the perfect mood for strangers to linger just a little longer over their coffee and stolen glances.

At the family gathering, Sam tried IMITATING CHEWBACCA but ended up sounding like a choking bear, sending the kids into hysterics. Grandma, confused, whispered, “Should we call someone?”