So many words have been taken from us. Removed from human consciousness and lost forever. The number of blank spaces in printed material is growing day by day and soon we will witness the slow death of our conversations.
I stand at the big hulking machine and wait for it to spit out the next word that I must erase. I am being punished for my insolence but I have not been broken, yet. Tomorrow I will give my daughter a birthday present she alone will remember. I will give her the word ‘wyre piddle’ and she will keep it alive within her.
For 100 consecutive days I will write and post a short story (about 100 words) incorporating a randomly selected word from Afterliff: A new dictionary of things there should be words for.
wyre piddle n.
A small child with its shoes on the wrong feet.
A panicky nocturnal thought that makes you suddenly sit up in bed.