Not long after, the new moment of silence was announced--this time for all the victims of toxic gas clouds worldwide. It was happening too soon! The silence wasn't ready yet! Murray tried in vain to reach the president, someone in the armed forces, a project manager, anyone who might help him put a halt to this crazy plan. But it was no use. And so, one morning, as all the world was going about its noisy way, a sub-sonic blast began to ripple across the land, spreading a hush that you could hear--actually hear--in the distance coming for you, a soundless roar. People on every side of Murray began to grab at their ears, as if in pain, their eyes bright with fear. It reached Murray's ears, too, thrusting into them like two long, elastic fingers, squashing out all other noise. "Too strong," Murray quickly assessed, wobbling on his feet. No one had tested for anything this strong. The echo could last for hours, maybe even days. God, wouldn't that be incredible? Entire days of silence. Even as he considered all the strange possibilities this situation implied, mouths continued to form silent vowels and consonants, communicators flashed and gyrated, the president raised his head and proclaimed the moment of silence over, but not a sound was heard.

What utter, marvelous, glorious bliss, thought Murray as he roamed the city streets, the powerful silence still throbbing in his ears. The only sound in his head was his own thoughts. When was the last time he'd heard them? Minutes had passed, yet it felt like hours. In silence, time became expansive, infinite. He began to run, leaping, twirling, flinging his arms into the air, hollering, mutely of course. It was, he would later recall, the happiest, purest moment of his entire life. But it was only a moment.

When, out of breath, he stumbled to a halt, he realized he had been blind to what was happening all around him. Where was the rejoicing? The faces turned towards the sun to receive the light? The pure, silent revelry? The happy moment of self-discovery that only comes when one of the senses is hacked off? Was there no one who would share his joy? No. Here instead were tears tumbling off of stricken faces, pleas for God's mercy evaporating off of trembling lips, fingers and hands flung desperately, senselessly about in an attempt to convey the horror. Here were babies whose cries carried no weight, dogs whose barks were useless without bites, children seen but not heard.

The sound to end all sounds had arrived.

Writer J.L. Shreve's nonfiction work has appeared in a number of publications, including Wired and Slate.com. She lives in San Francisco and is pursuing an M.F.A. in creative writing from San Francisco State University. Find out more at www.jennshreve.com.