The Last Word

In a world where silence was law, Marcus Wright kept his crime hidden beneath his tongue. Every morning, he'd reach into the secret compartment carved into his bedpost and remove a scrap of paper so thin it was almost translucent. On it, in microscopic handwriting, were the words that could condemn him: "The moonlight whispers silver secrets to the sea."

Poetry had been banned thirty years ago, along with all other forms of artistic expression. The Legislative Council of Global Harmony deemed creative language a threat to societal stability, citing studies that linked metaphorical thinking to civil unrest. They called it the Precision Protocol – all communication must be literal, functional, and quantifiable.

Marcus was ten when they burned the libraries. He remembered watching from his bedroom window as trucks carried away the ashes of Shakespeare, Whitman, and Angelou. His mother, a literature professor, had disappeared the next day. They said she'd been reassigned to a Processing Center, but even at that age, Marcus understood what that meant.

Now, at forty, he worked as a Language Compliance Officer, monitoring public communications for any hint of figurative speech. The irony wasn't lost on him, but irony itself was forbidden, so he kept that thought buried with all the others.

"Citizen Wright, your productivity metrics indicate a 2.3% decrease this quarter," his supervisor, Director Chen, stated during their monthly review. Her words came out in perfect, measured beats, like a metronome keeping time in a world without music.
"I acknowledge the statistical variation," Marcus responded, using the approved phrase. "I will implement corrective measures."

Behind his regulation-gray desk, Marcus's hand involuntarily twitched toward his breast pocket, where another secret poem lay folded: "Numbers march in endless rows, counting down our numbered days."

Director Chen's eyes narrowed slightly. "The annual Clarity Celebration approaches. You will be expected to deliver a speech on the benefits of precise communication."
"Understood, Director."

That evening, in his standard-issue apartment, Marcus pressed his palm against the wall panel that concealed his greatest treasure: a book of poetry his mother had hidden before they took her. Its pages were worn soft as silk from decades of secret readings. He only allowed himself one page per month – any more would be too dangerous. The words had to last.

A knock at his door froze him mid-motion. He quickly sealed the panel and composed his features into the blank expression expected of all citizens.
"Compliance inspection," called a voice from the other side.

Marcus opened the door to find Sarah Torres, a fellow Language Compliance Officer. Her dark eyes held something he couldn't quite read – an uncertainty that didn't belong in their carefully ordered world.

"Citizen Wright, your quarterly inspection is scheduled for next week," she said, her voice carrying down the empty hallway.
"Correct. The current inspection is unscheduled."

Sarah glanced over her shoulder before stepping inside, closing the door behind her. In a whisper so soft it was almost breath, she said, "I know what you are."

Marcus felt his pulse quicken but kept his face neutral. "Please clarify your statement."
Sarah reached into her uniform and withdrew a folded paper. On it, in handwriting he recognized as his own, were the words: "Dawn breaks like a promise, spilling gold across sleeping streets."

"I found this in the processing center," she said. "I should have reported it immediately."
Marcus calculated his options. Denial would be futile – his handwriting was distinctive, a remnant of his pre-Protocol education. The truth would mean death. Silence stretched between them like a tightrope.

"Why didn't you?" he finally asked.
Sarah's composure cracked, just slightly. "Because I remember. I was eight when they burned the books. My father was a poet – a real one, published. He taught me about metaphors and similes before they were forbidden. He said poetry was how humans made sense of being human."

"That kind of thinking is dangerous," Marcus said automatically, the words hollow in his mouth.

"Everything is dangerous," Sarah countered. "Even breathing can kill you if you do it wrong. But we keep breathing."
Marcus studied her face, looking for signs of deception. In their world, trust was as extinct as adjectives, but something in her eyes spoke to the part of him that still believed in beautiful things.

"I need to show you something," he said.
He led her to the hidden panel, watching her reaction as he revealed the book. Her sharp intake of breath was like music.
"Is that really...?"

"Yes. My mother's collection. Frost, Plath, Hughes, Neruda..."
Sarah's fingers hovered over the pages, not quite touching. "I'd forgotten how they looked, real books. All that possibility contained in paper and ink."
"I'm the last one," Marcus said quietly. "The last person who still writes poetry. As far as I know, anyway."

"Not the last," Sarah whispered. She pulled another paper from her pocket, unfolded it carefully. "The stars still dance, though we've forgotten their names. I've been writing since I was a girl, hiding the words under floorboards, in hollow walls. I thought I was alone."
Marcus felt something crack open inside his chest, like a seed splitting its shell. "We have to preserve it," he said. "Not just the old works, but new ones. Poetry isn't just about beauty – it's about truth. Real truth, not their sanitized version."
"They'll kill us if they find out."

"They're killing us already," Marcus replied. "Slowly, word by word."
Over the next few weeks, they met in secret, sharing their hidden verses. Sarah's poems were full of fire and sharp edges, while Marcus tended toward quieter observations of forgotten things. Together, they began transcribing their work into a small notebook, creating a new collection for whatever future might come.

The day of the Clarity Celebration arrived too soon. Marcus stood at the podium, facing rows of blank faces, his prepared speech about communication efficiency waiting to be delivered. Sarah sat in the third row, her presence both comfort and concern.

He opened his mouth to begin, and thirty years of suppressed words rose up like a tide.
"Language is not a tool," he said, abandoning the script. "It's alive. It breathes. It grows. When we restrict it, we restrict ourselves. We become less than human."
The audience stirred. In the back, security officers began moving forward.

"Poetry isn't dangerous because it's imprecise," Marcus continued, his voice growing stronger. "It's dangerous because it's true. Because it reminds us that we're more than numbers, more than productivity metrics and compliance ratings."
He pulled out his mother's book, held it high. "Listen: 'Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.' Listen: 'Do not go gentle into that good night.' Listen: 'I contain multitudes.'"

The security officers were almost to the stage. Sarah stood up, then others, a ripple of movement in the ordered rows.

"They can't silence us all," Marcus called out. "Words are seeds. They'll grow in the dark, between the cracks in their perfect system. They'll bloom in unexpected places."
As they dragged him from the podium, he locked eyes with Sarah. She nodded once, almost imperceptibly. She would continue their work, protect their secret collection, keep the words alive until they could flourish again.

That night, in his cell, Marcus wrote his last poem on the wall with his own blood: "Even in darkness, truth speaks in whispers, waiting for hearts brave enough to hear."
They erased the words, of course. They erased Marcus too. But they couldn't erase what he'd started. All across the city, people began finding scraps of paper in unexpected places, bearing dangerous words: metaphors, similes, verses that spoke of beauty and pain and hope. Sarah's underground poetry network grew, passing words from hand to hand like contraband gems.

The world's last poet became its first martyr in the revolution of words. And somewhere, in a hidden room, a new generation of poets was being born, their whispered verses slowly breaking the silence that had threatened to become eternal.