Twenty
Selective HearingThe cicadas crescendo pierced the hot afternoon. Birds sang, warbled, and chirped; each note carried on warm air currents. A light breeze disturbed the trees and leaves shushed. A butterfly fluttered its colourful wings; tiny feet clung to a nearby flower as it drank its fill of nectar before drifting away. Where there was noise there was also tranquil silence, from screeching to melodious, from a quiet hush to the imperceptible. It was a matter of concentration, to separate the din that flooded our ears, focusing on what we wanted and ignoring everything else. We chose what and what not to hear. While Beth and I had heard groans of pain, Marcus had discerned words. One word repeated in succession—ow.
“Is it really a word?” Beth crossed her arms.
“Can you spell
