He was a collector, he was a collector of words. The sound a penduluming drop of liquid makes as it hits the surface ? SplInk. The sound of wet glass being wiped by a dry hand ? Fweeeep. The brittle sound of ice cracking in a warm glass ? Frickle. Scrrrrrrip. Tethered not by dictionary, nor thesaurus ('those linear, insular, bound dungeons of language') he spurned the common language for sound and shape.
"You can't say that" they'd say, "they're not real words"
"According to who?" Mouldering Dave would ask.
They'd referred to a Rogets, an Oxford Concise, a Cambridge, the thick heavy tomes, and said "These are real words.""Ah yes," Mouldering Dave had nodded sincerely "The language police."
He'd seen the expression on their faces, the smooth sheen of pity, could read their thoughts as though their eyes were transparent, he's old, humour the demented old man, he's not long for this world anyhow.
Splam-dips he called them, or occasionally, a Nockle.
It was a shame then, that when crossing the road on shoes which made a dim fleep, fleep at the back of his head he did not hear the froooooooaaaaa of the oncoming car.
On his gravestone they had put; ' Mouldering Dave. Never at a loss for words.'
"You can't say that" they'd say, "they're not real words"
"According to who?" Mouldering Dave would ask.
They'd referred to a Rogets, an Oxford Concise, a Cambridge, the thick heavy tomes, and said "These are real words.""Ah yes," Mouldering Dave had nodded sincerely "The language police."
He'd seen the expression on their faces, the smooth sheen of pity, could read their thoughts as though their eyes were transparent, he's old, humour the demented old man, he's not long for this world anyhow.
Splam-dips he called them, or occasionally, a Nockle.
It was a shame then, that when crossing the road on shoes which made a dim fleep, fleep at the back of his head he did not hear the froooooooaaaaa of the oncoming car.
On his gravestone they had put; ' Mouldering Dave. Never at a loss for words.'
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