Originally posted on Gay Flash Fiction:
(c) Marc Nash, 30 Oct 2014
I was the last in my line. The final native speaker of my language. It would die out with me since none would follow. For I had neither progeny nor converts. The concept of converts is a ridiculous one anyway, we ought solely to be learning our mother tongue at our mother’s knee. Our language doesn’t even have a word for ‘convert’.
Not that I haven’t striven my hardest. I’ve played on the emotional appeal of our tribe in peril without our indigenous tongue. I’ve tried to cajole, seduce, flatter and bully, again all to no avail. My kithmen refuse to have me pour our words into their cloth ears. The ewer holding our vernacular is cracked and the word flow has dribbled away into the dust.
Our argot is an expressive one. Born of our rural roots, it is all facial articulation and gesture…
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