Babora Books

Action Adventure SF Publishing

Babora Blog

Don't call me Wordsmith!

Posted by Gordon on November 30, 2010 at 4:18 PM

Wordmonger would be better.


Wordsmiths labour away to create quality. Me? I should be hawking words on the street with all the other purveyors of tawdry merchandise.



As I enter the square, shrill cries from the wordmongers break in on my reverie.


"I got words. I got words. I got the best words, the freshest words. Get your words right here at the right price," shouts one.


"Hey buddy. How about a nice word for the little lady? Take some home for the kids?" calls another.


"Hey pretty lady! You look like you could use a word. Nothing prettier than a pretty lady with some pretty words," leer's a third, offering an evil wink; the evil compounded by the lack of an eye.


"Go 'way, kid. I give you two words last week. No more freebees. Your parents know you using words like that?" snarls a humpbacked one, his face scarred by blows from a pica-space ruler. A sure sign this one had run afoul of one of the many gangs of roving typographers that curse our village.


"Father! Hey, padre. You wanna get yourself a few new words for the sermon this Sunday? That holy book, its real good but you gotta go modern. Gotta have new words to bring in the younger crowd," wheedles one who may have once pursued Holy Orders, but now finds sanctuary only in the bottle.


"No way, buddy. It’s all American-made words. No cheap imports here! No Nordic influence. No Latin prefixes. Not a single diphthong in the lot. One hundred percent guaranteed," declares one whose pallor speaks of those who toil in the ruins by night, unearthing things long buried and better left that way.


"Honest, Officer. We were just shooting the breeze," the smallest one complains as he is led away. "You see any words on me? I don't even own a dictionary. That? Nah, that's just a shopping list. See, I gotta' pick up some...stuff. Stuff, that's right. Gotta pick up some...uh...stuff, for my...uh...the thing, right? The thing with my whatchyacallit. 'S real, bad, Officer. Real bad."


I quickly make my way out of the square, the precious burden tucked safely under my arm.

Categories: None