Anglais example sentences with "blaring"

Tom could hear the television blaring in the background.
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The television is blaring.
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Sami saw a blaring light coming from behind his car.
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Sami was blaring the music.
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Sami was blaring that song.
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We saw several police cars with sirens blaring and lights flashing racing down the road.
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Ziri was blaring on the horn.
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As kids on sunny Lulu Island, we used to make "shrunken apple heads" of apples from the backyard. We carved, then dried them hanging in a closet. It was either very quiet, or pop music would be blaring from the radio.
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Ziri's blaring horn gave a deafening Doppler effect as his semi-trailer passed.
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Despite the blaring alarms, Lukas didn’t leave the room.
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The speaker started blaring a national alert.
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Why are you blaring your truck horn?
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I heard rock music blaring from the radio.
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The ambulance raced through traffic with sirens blaring.
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Suddenly, loud alarms started blaring all over the place.
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The AC was blaring.
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The air conditioner was blaring.
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It's a sunny 26th of July of 2025, here on Lulu Island. As usual, I walk to, drink at, and snack at Tim Hortons café. In the morning there, I was talking to Gary the Cantonese. He knows that I lived in Japan before. He wants to visit. I recommended to him "one week in Tokyo and one week in Okinawa." We both agreed that what makes a place special is really the food. We both agreed that Japan is much like Thailand. We talked about World War II: In the Philippines, my mother was a little girl, to whom a Japanese soldier gave little toys like a toy chick and promised that he would marry her when she grew up upon his return. Gary talked about family members who had to swim across the river to get to another place in "Occupied Hong Kong." I didn't mention to him about my fantasies about the Greater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere or "Dai Tōa Kyōeiken" in an alternative reality. Yesterday, I went to South Arm Park to view the forest. There was a colourful ice cream truck roving around, blaring the tune of "Music Box Dancer" by Frank Mills.
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It's Lulu Island, the 26th of July of 2025. It begins as always—with sunlight glinting off sidewalks and the easy rhythm of habit. I walk to Tim Hortons, a modern pilgrimage. The oat-milk coffee, a small rite. Gary is there again—Gary the Cantonese, as I've come to call him in my inner haiku. We talk over steaming cups and breakfast sandwiches, meandering from Japan to Thailand to the war. I tell him: "One week Tokyo, one week Okinawa." He nods. We agree: the taste of a place is its soul. We smile at the thought of izakaya clamor and the smell of fish sauce. Then history unfolds like an old film reel. In the Philippines, my mother—a child—was given a toy chick by a Japanese soldier, who spoke of returning, of marriage. Gary speaks of rivers crossed under fear, in "Occupied Hong Kong" in the shadow of Empire. We don't mention everything. I don't mention my alternate histories—the Dai Tōa Kyōeiken, shimmering in some parallel world. The unspoken sometimes speaks loudest. Yesterday, the forest of South Arm Park. I wandered there in contemplative silence. A lone ice cream truck rolled by, blaring "Music Box Dancer"—a tune too cheerful for the tangle of emotion in my chest. / ice cream melody— / childhood ghosts stirring / in the shade of firs

A blaring siren interrupted our conversation.