“’Void,’” Roy announces the title with pride as he turns the page expectantly.
“Go on,” his wife urges.
“There’s been some sort of mistake,” Roy says in disbelief, flipping the same page back and forth; “There’s nothing more; the story is missing!”
“That can’t be,” his wife responds; “Daphne called me early this morning to ask if we’d read it yet.”
“Well, have a look for yourself,” Roy says, passing the literary journal to his wife. Their daughter, Daphne, had won a contest for promising female writers in the 50-words-or-less category. His wife also turns the page several times, as though willing the words to appear.
“We have to tell her there’s been a printing error,” Roy says.
“She’ll be heartbroken,” his wife replies.
“You break the news,” Roy declares, in anticipation of one of Daphne’s emotional outbursts. His wife sighs in unspoken agreement. After a brief call to Daphne in which Roy tries to eavesdrop, his wife hangs up and looks at him with confusion.
What?” Roy asks. “I couldn’t make out a thing from your one-word responses in the conversation.”
“’Void’ is both the title and the story,” his wife explains; “There is no omission.”
“I don’t understand,” Roy says. His wife repeats the explanation and Roy continues staring back at her over his reading glasses. A habit of his when he wants a different answer and keeps getting the same one.
“She was serious,” his wife says.
“That’s mental,” Roy responds; “One word isn’t a story!”
“Stay calm,” his wife instructs him.
But Roy can feel a surge in his blood pressure. Daphne has that effect on him. After proudly informing all their friends that Daphne had won a writing contest, he will now have to explain that the “story” is one word. ONE WORD! Roy glares at the largely blank page with “Void” in the middle of a white sea, accompanied only by her nom de plume,
“Daphne Thunderbird.”
“This is beyond the beyond,” Roy shouts.
“Remember your breathing,” his wife soothes; “It’ll ease your anxiety.”
“I don’t need my anxiety eased; I need to read the rest of the damned story!” Roy yells.
“You’re shouting,” his wife says.
“I know I’m shouting,” Roy shouts.
“Daphne sounded so proud on the phone,” his wife tells him. “She said her story is like a piece of modern art where the canvas is all one color. The connoisseur brings their own interpretation to the work.”
“That’s completely daft,” Roy says, standing up from his Barcalounger and discarding the journal on the floor. “I’ve never heard anything so outrageous. That girl has lost the plot. Literally!”
Daphne, of course, is no longer a girl. At forty, she has tried her hand at several different careers including pottery making, colonic hygienist, and flower arrangement. Her interest wanes long before any success is realized. Roy had assumed Daphne’s Ph.D. in English literature was showing signs of life, but he feels his acid reflux beginning despite the bland breakfast his wife served him. This is a helluva way to start the day. Just then Roy’s mobile rings and Daphne’s name shows up in the caller ID.
“Dad!” she chirps before Roy can say hello. “What did you think of my story?”
“I see you put a lot of thought into it,” Roy responds.
“Are you being sarcastic?” Daphne snaps, having anticipated her father’s pedantic response. “It’s not easy telling a story in one word. My work was selected from hundreds of entries.”
Roy thinks the editor of this literary magazine has a rather pointless job.
“Dad!” Daphne barks into the void that now consumes the airwaves between them. “Dad, are you still there?”
“Yes,” Roy says; “Another big step up the career ladder, Daphne.” Roy is rubbing his chest where the heartburn lives as he tries to imagine a more stunning underachievement. He hears a dial tone.
“Is she angry,” his wife asks, even though she knows better than anyone that Roy and Daphne are chalk and cheese. Always have been. Roy collects the magazine and collapses back into his worn Barcalounger.
“To think we ordered five copies of this,” Roy mutters. Somehow, it’s worse than Daphne’s previous offerings: the misshapen ceramic “Dad” mug that cracked in the microwave, the unused high colonic gift certificate that still causes Roy to flush with embarrassment, and the thorny rose arrangement that bloodied his hands when he tried to change the water. “This wouldn’t suffice as bathroom reading – unless you’ve got a bursting bladder.”
“Daphne wants her writing to challenge the reader,” his wife says.
Roy swallows a bit of bile, courtesy of his acid reflux, and reaches for the remote.
Elizabeth Sundstrom earned a Post-Baccalaureate Writing Certificate from UC Berkeley and studied creative writing at Oxford University. Her work has been published in Half and One, Lunch Ticket, Beyond Words Magazine, Grande Dame Literary, and Blood+Honey. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and Labradoodle, Piper.
