This story, which I wrote this morning and for which I do not expect to win any literary awards, contains 14 words that no one (except maybe Vladimir Nabokov) has used in the past 100 years. I found them in a list of “old-timey” words that should be brought back into fashion, and they really are wonderful — both aesthetically and linguistically. If you’re completely unadventurous, you may click here to see what they mean. Or you can be a grown-up about it and test your reading-comprehension skills. If you’re not afraid of public embarrassment, offer your interpretation as a comment below the post.
To be perfectly soothfast, I felt a trifle lasslorn. A mere fortnight prior, my pals and I were enjoying pints at the pub when a comely, if not conventionally beautiful, being caught my eye. She palpebrated, and I returned the gesture. Within minutes, we absquatulated for a torrid rendezvous in the backseat of my carriage. She called me elumbated, though to be honest, I have no idea what that means.
Despite my erotographomania, she never took up her own keelivine in response. I waited and waited, feeling myself sliding widdershins into adolescence.
When I visaged her again, at the same pub, I was not, at first, diversivolent, and I approached her with only noble intentions. That fussock, whose beauty was far paler than I recalled, replied to my advance with a swift whisternefet to my cheek. And yes, I replied in kind — and then some — but I left alone, with no blood on my hands.
I ask: whom of you would have acted differently? Lest you all suffer from a toxic, profound case of epicaricacy, you will not seek my ganching. You may call me a mammothrept, a scoundrel, or a rogue. But I am not a killer.