The day the volume got stuck on every thought everyone was having and the consequences.
When the phenomenon began, nobody noticed immediately. Most of Carrigstown was too busy internally rehearsing their complaints about the drizzle, which was just the usual Monday-level mist.
But by 9:07 a.m., it was undeniable: every mind in town had been set to “public broadcast.” It wasn’t whispers. It was a full, Dolby surround-sound system of insecurities, grocery lists, and shockingly original curses about the bus schedule.
* The first casualty was subtlety.
* The second was dignity.
* The third was Mrs.Hennessy’s book club, which dissolved after ten seconds of mutually hearing the thought: “I never actually liked the book.”
- The Grocery Store Incident
Tom O’Reilly went to Murphy’s SuperValu for milk. What he got was a live commentary.
“Skim. The ghost of milk.”
“He walks like he’s apologizing to the floor for his footsteps.”
“Is that Tom? I heard he went to Cork to become a mime.”
“No, that’s the fella with the sentient eyebrows. This one just cried at a toilet paper ad once.”
“I bet his reusable bags are folded by size. Monster.”
Tom left, milk-less, now wondering if his gait was indeed overly penitent.
- Relationships Were… Audited
Couples everywhere underwent a brutal, instant transparency audit. The “I’m fine” statistic plummeted.
Emma heard her boyfriend’s inner voice, a ponderous baritone: “The laundry basket exists in a dimensional blind spot. Science should study it. Also, I am suddenly, ravenously craving a jambon.”
He, in turn, was buffeted by Emma’s rapid-fire internal shriek: “If I glare at the back of his head hard enough, will he spontaneously remember to change the toilet roll? TELEKINESIS, COME ON. Focus, Emma. Nothing. Just… caveman.”
They signed up for a communication course.
Separate buildings.
- Workplace Honesty Achieved Critical Mass
At Duffy’s Office Supplies, the boss clapped his hands. “Team! Synergy brainstorm!”
The mental barrage was instant and unanimous:
“I would rather lick the photocopier.”
“My soul is leaving my body. It’s hovering by the fire exit.”
“If he draws a Venn diagram, I’m legally allowed to shriek.”
“Why is he wearing that tie? It’s the visual equivalent of a dial-up tone.”
“I can hear Brenda thinking about her dog’s fungal infection. Make it stop.”
The boss went pale, muttered, “Point taken,” and gave everyone Friday off. Productivity soared, primarily in the field of serene gardening.
- The School System Collapsed in 43 Minutes
Children’s thoughts, normally a chaotic fountain, became a public health hazard.
Mr. Keating, the history teacher, fled after one child’s relentless internal chant: “BOREDBOREDBOREDBORED do teachers ever poo?”
But the final blow was young Siobhan’s quiet, devastatingly logical suspicion: “Miss Byrne doesn’t have a house. She folds herself into the stationery cupboard at night. I’ve calculated her diet: chalk dust and lukewarm tea from the staffroom.”
Miss Byrne, hearing this, stood very still. “I have a bungalow,” she whispered aloud, then placed her chalk neatly in the tray and walked out forever.
- The Great Adaptation
By day three, a new etiquette emerged.
People wore industrial-grade headphones, not for music, but to dampen the psychic noise of collective anxiety about mortgage rates.
The local café’s sign read: “NO THINKING ABOUT OUR SOUFFLÉS. THEY’RE TRYING THEIR BEST.”
Politicians, forced into honesty, found it revolutionary. The local councillor stood silently, his mind replaying the precise cost of the unnecessary roundabout. He was re-elected in a landslide.
And something beautiful, amidst the noise, took root.
With every secret fear and stupid song lyric broadcast loud, pretense became exhausting. Then impossible.
A kindness bloomed. You’d hand a tissue to a stranger because you’d heard their internal weepy over a dog in a film. You’d let someone merge in traffic because their mind was singing “don’t cry don’t cry you are a competent adult” on loop.
You realized the stern postman was mentally composing haikus about his cat. That the cool barista was internally debating whether a tomato was a room. That everyone, absolutely everyone, was just a frantic, silly, soft creature trying to seem like they had the manual.
We were all ridiculous. We were all the same.
The phenomenon ended as abruptly as it began on Sunday evening. The great, silent privacy of the mind was restored.
But on Monday, people spoke a little more freely. They laughed more easily.
And Tom O’Reilly went back to Murphy’s. He picked up a carton of full-fat milk, placed it decisively on the counter, and met the cashier’s eye.
“Lovely day for it,” he said.
“Sure is,” she replied. “The good milk, I see. Respect.”
He heard no other judgement. Out loud or otherwise.
