The long “ting”, followed by the endless squealing of the heavy automatic doors, announced the long-awaited stop of the elevator; Lucas, drowned in his own extreme, claustrophobic panic, hurried out, crushing his already sore right shoulder against the edge of the door, plunging without a glance into a mouldy, pitch-black hallway.
Behind him, in the thick darkness, one could hear the heavy doors closing; that shuffled, metallic, icy sound, revived in his memory other times, in which fear, hunger and war were part of his daily life.
Sometimes we lose precious seconds of inspiration in search of a single word. It’s worse with onomatopoeias.
Here are some ringing sounds. I chose “ting” when translating the short story “Too Much Pressure”.
bell – the sound that a bell makes when it rings
bong – a long deep sound that a bell makes
chime – a ringing sound made by a bell, or by a clock with a bell inside it
ding – the short sound that a bell makes
ding-dong – the sound that a bell makes
jingle – the sound that small metal objects make when they hit each other
peal – a sound of several bells ringing
ping – a short high sound like the sound of a small bell
ring – the sound that a bell produces
ring – a sound like a bell
ting-a-ling – the high clear sound that a small bell makes
tinkle – a high ringing sound
tintinnabulation – the sound of bells
tocsin – a warning signal made by the sound of a bell
toll – the loud slow repeated sound of a large bell
—“Ringing Sounds” at Macmillan Dictionary and Thesaurus
Adding knell: “the sound of a bell, especially when rung solemnly for a death or funeral”, and “tin tan din dan bim bam bom bo”, from “The Nine Tailors”, Dorothy L. Sayers
This short story was written originally in Portuguese back in 2014. That same year it was translated into Spanish and it has been sitting in my drawer ever since. I found it today and decided to give it a new look, revisiting the text and its emotional background, translating it this time to English. The last sentence from the original Portuguese and first version in Spanish was left out, as it no longer reflects my feelings. Hope you enjoy!
The Last Letter – Short Story
The Last Letter
Pedro Cuervo-Negro sat at his desk. He was tired and dejected. He did not want to fight further over something that could not be won in combat. He needed to feel wanted, desired. But he was not. Everything seemed to be a mere illusion. And of illusions, the fibres with which all the problems of the world are made of, he had had enough. He took a single sheet of paper – imported directly from the Eastern countries, probably Chinese – and sought with his eyes for the wooden box that held its pen, nib, and ink, religiously wrapped in a delicate light blue cashmere cloth. Flattening out the paper with a wooden ruler, he removed the glass from the table lamp that had illuminated him so many sleepless nights; grabbing his flint lighter he lit the faint oily light. The ritual to begin writing was almost always the same, with little variations, even when his mood was quite altered. It was like a spell that made him go back to being himself. And then, with the ink letters flowing on the paper, he himself was everything.
Too Much Pressure