The Voice

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Some stories haunt you until you write them. That’s what happened to me a few years ago when the first sentence of this story wouldn’t let me go until I wrote the rest of it. “The Voice” was my introduction to the city of Vision, one of the landscapes of Ephemera. I’m pleased to be able to share it with you now.

Travel lightly,

Anne Bishop

They called her The Voice because she had none. Fat, mute, and dimwitted, she was an orphan the village supported, providing her with a house and caretakers. And she was always included in village life. Oh, she wasn’t invited into people’s homes—everyone went to The Voice’s house when a visit was required—but every time someone had a “moody day,” as my mother had called them, every time something happened that was less than pleasant, a special little cake was made. The “moody” person took the treat to The Voice’s house, waited until she took her special seat in the visitors’ room, then handed her the food.

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