The Vote

When I was young they called me eloquent. They can’t say that anymore.

I write to you, future historian, from my hideout, uncertain for my days are numbered. I must choose my words carefully, for these walls have ears, and these ears have no heart. If I am found, you must know that I’ve hidden the dictionaries.

When the Promise Party took power it happened like a stampede of ciphers. No one knew the candidates, but it mattered not. Everywhere they ran, they won. And everywhere they governed, they brought prosperity.

My parents voted Promise. My lifelong friend Charlie voted Promise. There were so many followers so fast that no one voiced dissent. The sterling coffeehouse debates between me and Charlie turned to stale coffee. In no time it seemed there were more functionaries working on behalf of Promise than existed ordinary voters. And that’s when it all went to rot.

At first no one knew. After all, Brobdingnagian hadn’t been used in over a year, so nobody noticed when it went missing, let alone cared. Same with tatterdemalion.

Words we looked for on the tip of our tongues never came. Soon we learned why. Our rulers were removing words from our language in an effort to subjugate us. This had always been their plan.

One by one, methodically, with their army of white-coated technicians, Promise extinguished our precious vocabulary. Each tech was responsible for scrubbing a little piece of history. When they were done, the word never existed. It could appear nowhere, not in print, not spoken, not referenced.

Early rounds took out the words of a bygone era like musket, cotillion and livery. After that they turned to professions, where only specialists would likely notice. Gone were stochastic, heuristic and spondyloepiphyseal. But what was intended to remain surreptitious quickly blew wide open.

Transparency only encouraged them. They grew brazen and militant. Suddenly entire city blocks of words were being demolished. Edicts would be issued on a Monday, “Remove blue and every variant.” By Friday society was rid of turquoise, cobalt, azure, sky and navy.

As pinpoint accuracy was removed our inner world became increasingly locked-in, comprised of a smaller and smaller lexicon. We didn’t lose the ability to perceive the sky, the ocean, or our lovers’ eyes. We simply called them blue, blue and blue, as a child would. And when blue itself had been taken, we got by with gray black, dark black and light black. But how would our grandchildren fare, growing up word-blind since birth?

Our tormentors did this with emotions and they did it with names. The last time I saw Charlie he could only gape at me silently. It was as if the entire population were learning a foreign language together, a shared vocabulary of just a few hundred words.

But Promise was not done. Paranoid that their subjects would foment rebellion and topple them, our rulers were intent on removing any last vestiges of language from the people. They declared, there would be a vote.

By our own hand, we would have a say in which words to keep. The government was giving us the illusion of control. In reality, we were just choosing where to build the walls of our own prison.

I’d fled to the mountains by now, me and a dozen others. Whatever paper books we had secreted away were scattered for safety. From my perch I kept watch, and I can tell you, future historian, that the voting signaled the beginning of the end.

Soon there were just three words left. These were by design: yes, no and maybe. Promise allowed all three so a free market economy could thrive and a system of jurisprudence could function. But what they once believed a benevolent and empowering action — giving a vote to the people — now seemed like a lapse in judgment and a precursor to their own eviction.

They resolved, society would keep just one word.

This would serve us for all purposes, for all time. The Promise Party would hold a very simple vote, either yes or no. One would be kept, the other discarded. For all its service to mankind, maybe disappeared overnight, a kidnap victim like all the rest, never seen nor heard from again. As humanity’s final word, it was indecisive and unsuitable.

Yes was a positive word with great upside, a potent word for life, for ascension, a word that said, “We want… we agree… let us!”

No had always been a forceful word of protest and rejection, a defensive word that said, “Stop…back…fight!”

Finally the day of choosing came. People from all over showed up to the polls like a celebrity funeral. Although there had been no campaigning, the margin was razor close. When midnight brought no announcement, we knew there would be a recount. Two more days of tense anticipation passed before we finally learned our fate — the singular voice we were left with.

And our last word was — wait! Future historian, they’re at the door.