ALL IS NOT LOST
No one knows where she comes from: oddly dressed, her face concealed under her a hijab.
She takes a sharp turn at Crescent Street and heads towards the lagoon.
She has been running for days, holding onto all the paper she has gathered for years, thirteen sheets in total.
Authorities have banned all forms of writing. Writers are inciting civilian uprising, they say. All Writing softwares flushed away, internet platforms supporting texts are taken down, papers are banned too.
She lost some of it last night as she ran, with the Police on her trail. Writers are outlaws, a large number now imprisoned or killed.
At the lagoon, she locates a desolate wooden boat, hops on it and paddles to the middle. Here, on water, she tastes freedom. She imagines herself as water, swirling into endless spaces.
She dips her hand into her bag, making for her paper. She hopes all is not lost: one is left. All the years of hiding, running and being hunted is down to one sheet of paper.
She brings out her pen, warm tears streaming down to burn her cheeks, and writes for the first time in years:
'We're writers, and we're here.'