Wrong number

Every now and then it's fun to call a wrong number and leave a voicemail like:

"Listen Jimmy, it's Frank. Are you home? Listen, if you're there: you need to get out of the house now. They're coming Jimmy, I'm sorry -- they know everything, they got my phone -- and they're coming. They just left an hour ago and Jimmy -- they have your address, Jimmy -- Christ, please don't be stubborn: you gotta go. You gotta leave now. They're on their way now, I swear, you have to listen to me. Don't hide in the basement, and do not let your family -- Jimmy! Goddamnit. I hope you've taken off, already. God, I'm so sorry."

And then call back a few minutes later:

"Hi there. My name is Frank and I just wanted to follow up on a message I left at this number. That was intended for my friend James. If you could just disregard that, I somehow have your contact details listed under his. My apologies. I've updated his number and address accordingly. Sorry for any inconvenience."

And then call back exactly one minute after that:

"Hi, there. It's Frank again. You know, just to be safe you may want to get out of the house."

The difference a vowel makes

Clink is the sound of two flutes of Champagne, kissing in midair.  Unlike like other celebratory noises (the spew of a kazoo, the blare of a goal alarm, "OMYGODYES!", etc.) a clink comports itself with class and refinement. It does not strain to be heard, nor insist on its presence. Like the dignified lift of a conductor's baton, a clink is subtle but commanding. A clink is to be respected.

Clunk, on the other hand, doesn't get the same respect.  It's a soiled workboot landing on a hardwood floor. Or the protest of a second-hand credenza, jostled in a stairwell by sweaty movers.  It's the bellow of a sedan, who's trunk refuses to admit another suitcase. It's the sound of defeat, really. And that's a surprising truth for those who expect otherwise of defeat: perhaps an anguished moan or bawl. It is merely a tuneless clunk; a pair of unmanned rowboats thudding in a foggy, waveless sound.

Clank is more feared than respected. Like a wrench thrown across a noisy garage or construction site, one keeps an eye out for clank. It is a neighbourhood bully, dragging a rusting pipe against the inner city asphalt. Clank is the sound of straining machinery and thus the annoying tune of Progress; the soundtrack by which we leave that we know and love. Clank is a heavy hammer against metal that glows like an oncoming future. Clank is musical theatre with chains, it is religion with cast iron, it is proof of an emptied oil barrel's ultimate demise as it is lost into a deep, deep canyon.

Clonk is specifically the sound of getting hit in the skull with a rubber or wooden mallet.

And clenk, like the sound of astonished eyes, is no sound at all.