Reginald Pinkerton had his heart set on becoming famous as the author of the shortest story ever written — indeed the shortest story that could ever be. But someone who must have had a grudge against him had already published a story with no text whatsoever, a thorn in Reggie's side if ever there was one.

One day he came up with the answer. He too would publish a story with no text — but with no title either. He had a hard time disguising his glee when he submitted this idea to his favorite magazine editor, and a harder time concealing his disgust when he received a rejection slip. Seven years later no magazine editor had yet the slightest clue that his idea was genius; all of them had rejected it. Something about not knowing what to put in the table of contents.

Three years after giving up he woke up in the middle of the night with a gasp. His hand flew up to his mouth in astonishment. Of course they wouldn't publish it. It was not yet the shortest story. The shortest story would have no author. It would be as empty of form and substance as those nameless deities who are content to exist yet not be perceived.

He sat down at his desk, grabbed his writing pad and pencil, stared in front of him for a few minutes in utter contentment, and ripped off the top sheet as a souvenir he felt sure would one day grace the halls of the Smithsonian.

"Bad move," said a voice behind him, sounding a bit like a nameless deity who was content to exist yet not be perceived. "We don't like competition."

Of course the irony of it all was that, even though poor Reginald was never heard from again, his story — the shortest story — was published in each and every issue of each and every magazine from that very moment until the end of time.