Where the last of the big words dwell

Where the last of the big words dwell
By Jon Slone



I charted a course for The Brobdingnagian Plains, ‘neath the Sisyphean sun, where the last of the big words dwell.

Starting off, I intrepidly braved the Caveat Jungles in all of their convoluted glory. Nestled-in taut, under a canopy of misanthrope trees, I found a sequestered glade stitched-in on all sides by the ensorcelled, Pennyworth Peaks. Scuttlebutt purports that these Proficuous Peaks are made out of magical and mouth-watering milk chocolate. Whether or not verisimilitude inhabits said gossip is neither here nor there for I scarcely had time to respire, much less loan myself over to escarpment-licking bliss!

At this point, my knackered time-piece read 2:37pm.

Around the Pullulating Pools, I navigated my enervated person, paying little mind to the scads of Lackadaisical Durplepotts mired in empty repose. Moreover, I never bore witness to any Pontificating Panjandrums, chimerical dorps or disingenuous shoats either.

And I was so hoping to see a disingenuous shoat!

I waded through the tempestuous, Fribble Fjords. I canoed every gossamer inch of Lugubrious Loch. I hiked up endless flights of Craggy Apples and I bested many a mangy, Frog and Toad as well!

To my unbridled delight, near gloaming, after numberless hours of strenuous journeying, I had finally darkened the east entrance of the Brobdingnagian Plains.

Holey Blue-Jeans!

For as far as gapes could gander, I saw nothing but endless throngs of cyclopean words! Clustered on a lush page of earth like GooseBump Buffalo!

My inner word-nerd was a kernel of popcorn in a skinned-up microwave!

Here at the end of the last of the most precious and promethean words ever, it frightened me to know what lie just ahead. For I could see that there was more!

Ever at the ready, I quickly slipped between a plump Clishmaclaver and a courteous Comeuppance.
I think they were expatiating poppycock, though I’m not entirely sure.

Next, I crawled over an enormous Confabulate that was stacked on top of a bulbous Bumbershoot. I eschewed a histrionic Hornswoggle, a diminutive Appellation and a gloomy Salmagundi.

Ever and anon I tripped over a Traipsing Tergiversate, stubbed my big toe on a
purple Pedagogue and found unexpected respite atop a gracious but crestfallen Cachinnate.


If I had to wager a guess, I’d say that the last words I ever saw were Pelf, Bedraggled and Verisimilitude.

In hindsight, I’m really quite taken with the word, Verisimilitude. The way I see it, it just can’t help but being a big ole bit of mouth candy! The actual word means, truth. Yet there it sits, encased in all of that deliciously silly wrapping paper!

Shortly thereafter my fleshly car framed the Brobdingnagian Plains permanently in its rear-view.


Minutes later, my hangdog body found it toeing the languid ledge of Feckless Knoll, overlooking the unremitting world of Empty Chasm, the place where words cease to exist.


And I was speechless.





Jon WordNerd Slone