*** Weekend Write-In for 1 Mar 2019 ***

"list": In 500 words, tell what happens when there is a list

PROSCRIBED

Melloncamp looked down at his list, and then up towards the pale figure that had half shuffled, half stumbled, towards him.

'Confirm name. Medium, Paul.'

Medium, still slightly dazed after 3 days isolation and sleep deprivation in a perpetually bright lit cell, not to mention the rifle butt of seconds ago that had propelled him forward, stuttered. 'Y Yes. I'm Paul Medium.'

'Occupation.'

'Well you see, that depends. If you're talking about how I earn ... earnt my living.'

'Says here. Writer.'

Medium nodded. 'Ah yes, but ...'

'Yes or No.' There was a dangerous edge to Melloncamp's voice. Other guards were turning towards them, looking hostile.

'Yes. Writer,' Medium replied quickly.

Melloncamp stamped the papers attached to his list and ticked the side of the name. 'Next.'

Another grey uniformed guard grabbed his arm, roughly stamped his chest with a black W and he was pushed towards a small group of fellow unfortunates who were sitting or standing under guard some twenty feet away.

One greeted him. 'Did I hear you say you were Paul Medium? I think most of us were indicted under the same group prosecution. For wrong write sedition,' he added and then held out his hand. 'My name is Twalborn. It used to be Tom, before the name bannings.'

Medium nodded. 'I guess Paul is still bland enough to be on the acceptable first names list. I think I recognize your name.'

Twalborn smiled. 'I certainly know yours. Promptmaster.'

Medium accepted the hand shake, but his visage was glum. 'A distinction that doubled my time in re-education camp. I didn't resist but they still seemed to want to punish me more, though I suppose I'm lucky. Do you remember Wilson?'

His fellow prisoner lowered his eyes. 'John should never have tried to argue the case for free speech. Not to the Admin-Istration. Go ... uh, leader rest his soul.'

An older bearded man interjected. 'No Soul talk. Such concepts are also proscribed. Cease or I will have to report you.'

Twalborn took Medium aside - the latter raised an eyebrow and posed the question. 'That man was a prisoner too. Why is he ...'

'Shhh, Zonder speaks for them. He is a capo to the Admin-Istration. A good man and he will warn you, but best not to wrong speak too much in front of him.'

Medium shook his head in despair. 'I remember reading and commenting on his sailing stories.'

'He doesn't write them anymore,' Twalborn replied somberly and indicated the white haired man's missing right hand. 'They wanted him to transcribe Right Write, and did that to him when he refused. They broke him.'

'Did they get all the Weekenders?' Medium asked, glancing at the other shabby figures in work camp blues with the big W stamped on their chest.

'Most. But a few got away. Remember CDC? She lived and wrote, remote, but they still disapproved of her farm tales and the past writes - said it was sedition to talk of times before the enlightened World Power.'

'I remember. Is it better in Austra-Zealand Sec?'

'No. But the WP Thought Guards and the Admin-Istration centres are far apart. By the time they found her, the crafty woman had already left, but not until she sent all her flash fic to ...' Twalborn glanced around and whispered. 'The Night Elf.'

Medium's eyebrows raised. 'She exists? I know some 500 worders were posted under that name, but ...'

'She does. And she's one step ahead of the story coders - she can get in and out of their system at will and she's re-uploading all the old stories. The word will get out. Imagination isn't dead. Others will start to write!'

Paul Medium's face broke into the first genuine smile in many months. 'Then it doesn't matter what the W P do to us. Our old flash fics will inspire others to write and eventually there will be too many to kill or imprison!'

Twalborn returned the smile. 'The yen for imagination is within us all. THAT can't be stamped out! Try to quash creativity in one place and it will emerge elsewhere, stronger than ever.'

Medium felt his spirits soar. 'And even we can use our minds.'

'What ... what do you propose?' It was Zonder - he had overheard, but didn't look as if he would report them. There was a strange but welcome glint in his eye.

Medium whispered. 'Pass it round. Hope. In 500 words, tell what happens when a writer feels hope!'