(Short Story) A girl named Wordless is a painter fighting for survival in a land run by the Registry of Authorship. Everyone in Papyrus must write, with books taxed and government financial aid issued according to publisher status. Those citizens of Papyrus who have no writing ability or who refuse to become authors are -Deleted- Can the Bohemian Rhapsody Resistance save Wordless from the Editors before her existence gets wiped from the page?

1. Papyrus
The lilac dusk met nightfall as the futile protests of the plagiarists died to silence, and nineteen-year-old
Wordless pressed her face to the glass to watch them. She clutched the window sill with paint-stained
fingers and counted the men and women being loaded onto the military-style truck to be taken to
prison—ten this time. There were fewer with each raid.
The Registry of Authorship was cracking down on non-writers. They would shuffle the talentless hacks to
the bottom of the pile and make them disappear. Wordless eyed her Word Processor across the studio
apartment and wondered if the Registry knew how very little she had done on her manuscript. Were
they monitoring her? Was she next?
“Come away and write,” Strange muttered. Wordless lifted jade eyes that connected with her lover’s
and read the sadness in his blues. He was concerned. His sallow skin boasted lack of sunlight; hers was
too dark by comparison. He knew she had been sneaking out, ignoring her work, but she had to write.
“I can’t. The colors interfere. I think of a subject and see it instead of hear it. How can I write?”
Her muscular thighs bunched as she crouched out of sight when one of the Registry of Authorship
guards looked up at her window. The curtains fluttered shut. Wordless crawled to the canvas where a
painting was taking shape. She would writer later. Always later.
In Papyrus, everyone was required to tell their story. They were born, they wrote, and they lived. It was
the way things had gone as far back as anyone could remember. Word was religion and ruled with an
iron fist, and those with no story were given one or deleted. There was no standard number of books a
citizen had to release, but they all had to write at least one before their twenty-first birthday.
Strange pushed away from the desk with a scowl and dropped down next to her at eye-level. “This is no
time for hobbies, Wordless. Your Primary Review with the Registry is weeks away, and you have nothing
to show. If you can’t produce planning notes or the start of a draft, I’m afraid I’ll lose you.” The cool silk
of his caress to her face drew her attention. She looked from the acrylic portrait taking shape beneath
her paintbrush. “I can’t do this without you. You’re my muse. Let me help you,” he whispered.
“Muses are something writers made up to get laid.” Her smile teased and revealed nothing of the
thunderous roll of her heart beneath her ribcage. His kiss swept her anxiety under the rug and made her
feel like prose, and yet she didn’t have the words to describe it. Anything she wrote felt colorless,
nothing like this kaleidoscope of bliss Strange inspired.
His nose bumped hers as he stared at her. “Let me write for you.”
She shook her head swiftly. “No. You have your own work to do. I don’t want you jeopardizing your next
review. They’ll cut your funding if you haven’t met word-count goals, and you’re barely eating enough as
is. This whole mess makes me wish I could…”
“What?”
“…Rebel. Break with the status quo. I’d give them a story they’d be able to visualize.”

2. Throughout Papyrus, Tuesday’s new book releases were rolling off trucks and filling bookstores, which
meant government aid cards were reloaded. The pink sun crawled over the horizon, turning her room
blood orange, and Wordless grumbled at her vivid dreams cut short. She dragged over to her desk to try
working on her manuscript but didn’t get past powering on the Word Processor before giving up.
She needed some things from the store. Wordless grabbed her scuffed satchel and ducked out. Birdsong
trilled in her wake, but as she strolled past living quarters in the Young Writer Ward, the sound of
clacking keys overtook the sounds of nature. So many people were writing instead of living life, which
she couldn’t understand.
They should have been going out, having conversations, having drinks. They should’ve been spending
time with their families or falling in love or having babies. Papyrus was full of flat characters because
they had not developed themselves for trying to write others into existence.
She passed guards on the corner and averted her gaze. More and more of them lately.
When Wordless reached her destination, she wove her way through the familiar aisles of her favorite
hobby store where the dry, papery smell made her feel at home. Her fingers slid the length of picture
frames on display, which she eyed longingly but couldn’t afford. As an unpublished author, she was
allotted enough for essentials but. No luxuries.
Wordless was considering whether to spend the government aid on pigment or paper when she
overheard a conversation on the next aisle and leaned toward the shelving to listen closer. “…Becoming
a police state. Can’t get anything done with the Editors breathing down my neck!”
“You know what it’s about, Roving. The Registry is using our syntax dollars to fight the Resistance.”
“Bah! Nasty bunch of rabble rousers. If they keep burning bookstores, the Registry will have us all on a
three book minimum, mark my words! The rebels call themselves fighting for our freedoms, but the
blokes are making it harder on us!”
Wordless had heard about the Bohemian Rhapsody Resistance, the counterculture bandits who risked
their lives undermining the stronghold of the Registry of Authorship. It seemed her entire young life had
been studded with whispers about the covert group, but lately their antics were increasing in visibility.
The Bohemians were trying to overthrow the Literati.
Wordless closed her fingers around a bundle of paintbrushes and scurried to the register to check out
using the automated system. She scanned her paints, brushes and a roll of unfinished canvas, gawking at
the total sum. Her plastic aid card beeped when she scanned it. The display on the register showed
three dots, and she waited for the transaction to be approved.
It wasn’t. Her card was declined. Wordless eyed the receipt that eased from the machine. The cramped
digital print read, “Unauthorized purchases.” She swore under her breath and tried to run the card
again, but it was no use. Peeping at the security camera over the register, Wordless hurried out of the
store without buying anything.
The slip of white receipt paper fluttered from her hand in the breeze. It was illegal to utilize monthly
allowance for anything other than clothing, food and shelter. At the end of the month she would receive
a secondary check that varied according to surplus money from book sales, which was for recreational

3. purposes. However, the Registry rarely enforced the stringent laws. For them to do so now was another
example of how the behavior of Bohemian Rhapsody was affecting everyday life for writers everywhere.
She quickened her steps as her mind raced at the possible outcome of their intervention. Could anyone
convince the Registry all art was equal? Would there come a day when she could boast about being a
painter the way bestselling authors talked about their writing? There wouldn’t if no one tried.
Strange returned to her flat that evening. He entered with a tired smile and strained eyes. “Did you
write today?” He set his computer bag on the desk next to her Word Processor and pulled Wordless into
his arms. She had spent the day working on her “story,” and she hoped he would approve.
“Something like that,” Wordless murmured, disengaging from his embrace.
Her warm fingers tangled with his as she drew him to three panels drying against the wall. As soon as he
saw them, Strange shook his head with a frustrated sigh. “This isn’t writing.”
“It tells a story. There’s a beginning, middle and end. I’m not done with them yet, but I was thinking—”
“What? That the Registry will accept this in lieu of an actual book? Have you lost your mind, Wordless?!
They’ll lock you up! Or, worse, they’ll make you disappear like the others!”
His angry words bounced off the wall and reverberated in her head. Hopelessness descended. Her eyes
darted left to right for some justification. “And how do you know it won’t work, Strange? No one has
ever tried it before…I am not like you,” she whispered. “I can’t edit out the parts of myself that don’t fit
into the Registry’s narrative.”
Angrily, he snatched up his bag. “Either you edit yourself or they delete you.” He yanked open the flap
and pulled out his Portable Processor. “There are rules to this, beloved. You must turn in something.
Here. I’ve started it for you. It’s not much, but this five thousand words will keep you in the clear until
you can write something of your own.” He pressed a sheaf of printed pages into her hand, and the paper
fluttered to the floor, unaccepted.
“I just want to be free!” she shouted.
He caught her up in his arms and pressed his hand over her mouth to silence her. He kissed her eyelids
to halt the tears welling up from a deep, unfulfilled place in her soul. “We do what we must. We write
what we have to in order to survive. If you want to be free…write.” He slid his hand away and kissed
what he had crushed.
She whispered, “Or, join the Resistance.”
He took her to bed. He made love to her until she forgot about resistance.
***
The Registry of Authorship was headed by Publisher Tile Harding. It was his duty to read every
manuscript that came across his desk. He had been doing it for forty-five years, and he liked to believe
he had a keen eye for originality. He was equally brilliant at spotting similarities, and as he read

4. Wordless Everett’s submission for her Primary Review, he knew he had seen this writer’s work before. It
wasn’t hers.
His thin face stilled. His long fingers shifted to his Processor, and he pulled up a digital copy of a file
labeled Ghostwriter Offenses. Wordless had submitted five thousand words and planning notes that did
not belong to her. Judging by the content and style, it matched a series of other submissions the
Registry was reasonably certain had been created by the same benevolent writer.
Some of the Offenses were nearly complete books. Others were, like Wordless’ draft, a few thousand
words. None of the perpetrators had been eradicated because Tile was staying the hand of the Registry.
He wouldn’t arrest anyone until he knew who the real writer was.
The head of the editorial department rapped the door. “It’s been brought to my attention the young
lady we reviewed today has been making unapproved purchases. How do we proceed, sir?”
“What’s she buying?”
“You’ll think it’s silly. I certainly did. She’s giving up her clothing and food allowance for…art supplies.”
Tile stared at the wall, in thought. So, she hadn’t been writing because she was dabbling in some other
form of the arts. Fascinating. Tile didn’t understand people who didn’t write. He knew they were out
there. He just couldn’t figure out how they thought, or if they thought, if they couldn’t put words to a
page. Something had to be wrong with people like that.
“Send her a letter for me. I’d like to see her art.”
***
Wordless stared at the official-looking piece of mail with her heart in her throat. The envelop snapped
and tore, and she shook out the tightly folded letter. Her chest filled with butterflies in place of a beat.
“After careful review of your purchasing history, we are aware you are also an artist. The Registry of
Authorship humbly requests you submit any illustrations you have created.”
Strange read the letter over her shoulder. Wordless pivoted into the wall of his chest with a shout of
excitement. “They want to see my art!” she screeched.
Strange frowned. “The Registry isn’t concerned with artwork. What’s this about?” He grabbed the letter,
scanned it quickly and shook his head.
“This is my chance, Strange. This is my opportunity to show them what I can really do. My love, I
appreciate you devoting your precious time to helping me have writing to submit, but that isn’t my
story. This is.” She gestured to her art.
Strange knew there was no way to convince her she was making a mistake by following the Registry’s
orders, but she wasn’t a writer. She didn’t quite understand subplots. She had no experience with an
unreliable narrator. They were baiting her with interest in her passion, but it was bait all the same,
which meant there was also a hook.
She RSVP’d to their invitation and scheduled a date and time to meet with them again. Then she set
about finishing the paintings. She labored over the art for weeks in anticipation of wowing the Registry.
When the day came for her to meet with Tile Harding, Strange didn’t visit her that morning, but

5. Wordless thought nothing of it. She knew he was smarting at her for not listening to his well-intended
advice not to show them her paintings. He would see.
The Registry had to realize that the quality of stories being churned out year by year was decreasing.
They had turned a beautiful craft into slave labor, and even the best writers were suffering. Maybe they
were finally considering other options, other talents.
She skipped on the way to the Publishing House and waited in the lobby with her big black portfolio in
hand. It was bulky and heavy, but she cherished the weight. When the secretary called her to the back
to meet with Publisher Tile, she was calm. She was ready.
Until she stepped into the bare room where center stage was a man tied to a chair. Strange. His shaggy
hair fell over his bruised face. When he heard her gasp, his head jerked up. “Wordless! Get out of here!
It’s a trap!”
Her thick hair whipped across her face as her lips parted in a soundless cry, eyes searching for who had
done this. Three men in business suits sprinted toward her. Her portfolio was snatched from her arms,
no shield. Her paintings spilled out of the bag and were kicked away as they grabbed her arms. Wordless
cried out at the pain of their brutal manhandling. “Strange, what’s going on?!”
“You have to come with us,” a stoic editor muttered.
“Why is he here? What are you doing to him? Strange!”
“Leave her alone, you bastards! It’s me you want!” Strange growled. It was futile. He couldn’t break the
bonds that held him. All he could do was watch in horror as they carried her away.
Wordless was dragged from the chamber with Strange’s hollow shout ringing after her. Tile waited for
her in an isolated interrogation room where no one would learn of her answers to the questions that he
posed.
“Did he write for you?”
“Please, you have to let him go. It’s not his fault,” she sobbed. Wordless wrestled against the handcuffs
around her wrists. Tears slid down her face, no use. He stared at her like she was a word he didn’t
understand the meaning to but that he would figure out.
“Where is your manuscript, Ms. Everett.” His voice was terrifyingly devoid of emotion.
“Sir, if I can show you my art, I can show you my story. I am not a writer, but I have…so many stories in
my head. I promise you I will do it myself if you’ll only let him go.”
“He’s being deleted as we speak.”
“What?” The syllable was hoarse. The scream was ragged. “No! No!!! Strange!” She jerked maniacally at
her restraints, but the chair was bolted to the floor. Her lustrous hair floated around her tear-streaked
face as she shook her head in denial. “You can’t do this to him! You can’t!”
Tile nodded matter-of-factly. “We cannot afford to allow such an egregious breach of contract from our
writers. The Registry of Authorship expects everyone to have their own unique voice. Mr. Luz

6. understood the risk he took by breaking our laws, and he has to be held accountable for his actions.
And, as for you…”
The Editors entered the grey interrogation room to whisk her away to a place where she could write. For
she had to write. She had no ideas, so they were provided for her. A computer generated a random
premise. An intern created an outline and character profiles.
Wordless was slung into a prison cell with nothing but a Word Processor and irony. Her knees smacked
the floor as her legs gave out in despair. The pain was physical. Her skin ached. Her chest felt
constricted, and her bones hurt beneath the weight of losing him. They were deleting him for the crime
of not allowing her to write her own story. Yet, they were forcing her to write a story that was not her
own.
She had three hundred days. The first seven months of her sentence, she grieved. After that, she had
nothing left within her but the memories, and she had to get them out.
Part 2
The straw cot on the floor beneath the narrow high window in the cinderblock room had been her bed,
sofa, chair and grave for over half a year. Wordless rolled onto her back and stared at the grey ceiling as
the odor of sweat, nightmares and despair permeated the four-by-four cell. She threw an arm across her
eyes to block out the light.
Her stomach churned and she felt sick, but she forced herself to get up. To sit at the rickety plastic table
and stare at the Registry provided Word Processor. The guards no longer watched her as closely because
they all knew her fate. She wouldn’t have an entire novel completed in time for her twenty-first
birthday. It was pointless to try.
She turned on the computer out of habit. When the blue screen illuminated, she was surprised to see a
message.
“For the services rendered by our faithful member, Strange Luz, we offer you this advice. Art is
everywhere, in everything. Unleash it. --BRR.”
The screen filled with random words, highlighted to create a picture of a flower, and