Just beyond the capacity of my
finely tuned aural talents,
I don't so much hear
as feel
the thrum of clandestine words
ricocheting back and forth,
like an antiphonal duet
between bumblebees.
Their indistinguishable strains
rise and fall in pitch
and volley,
lending a familiarity
to the timbre.
Arcs of questions-and-responses tumble forth
beneath the door,
splayed and distorted with distance.
My instincts sense that it's
conspiratorial, low,
to be deliberately out of my earshot.
Disparagements, no doubt,
aimed at me,
spoken secretly,
out of range,
so that I cannot aptly defend myself.
Cowards.
Laughter now.
Muted,
Shameless,
Ribald.
I throw open the door,
ready to unleash a scathing diatribe
upon my murmuring attackers.
Instead, I find my cellphone
wedged between two cushions,
playing an episode of
Everyone Loves Raymond.
6/22/2026
I enjoyed this, Rachelle. The slow progression from vague awareness to absolute certainty is beautifully handled, and the humour lands because the emotional logic is so believable. We've all had moments where incomplete information allowed imagination to fill the gaps. The reveal of the phone between the cushions is perfectly judged—funny, deflating, and just a little uncomfortable because it exposes how readily we can become convinced of things that were never true. An excellent work to capture the idea of 'Murmur'