The Short, Happy Life of an Apostrophlea (a light entertainment)

From the Mad Lexicon:
Apostrophlea: a runaway punctuation parasite that frequently infests plurals.

I wrote this a few years ago. Just dug it up and edited faintly. The protag is a verbose little bugger, ain't he? Deserves what he gets, if y'ask me. Enjoy.
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The Short, Happy Life of an Apostrophlea

I was born in a moment of carelessness. Perhaps it was the lack of purpose in my existence that made me so aware of the precarious nature of life. At any rate, I was determined from the first day to enjoy my life to its fullest.

Situated as I was between the "t" and the "s" of an "its" that had no business housing one of my kind, I had a good view of all the goings-on in the page in which I dwelt. It was a particularly juicy portion of a tale of romance, and not one of your common mills-n-boon potboilers either. The only flaw in this nearly ideal setting was the fact that the consummation of the act which began on the previous page of the manuscript (not visible to me, of course, but I deduced its existence) did not take place until (so I had heard) the fourth paragraph of the page following my own.

Still, I had enough to entertain me and distract me somewhat from my cares and worries. I certainly had enough of those! Not a day passed but the population of the little community of words changed. Old friends that I had known for a week, even a month or more, might be wiped out in a second. Others moved in to take their place, but no one felt truly secure. The editorial axe could fall on anyone's neck at any moment.

Such are the vicissitudes of life in a work-in-progress. Sentences came and went or were transformed, undergoing one strange mutation after another. Whole paragraphs sometimes changed neighborhoods. I recall one such drastic move when I thought that my end had come for sure. But although a nearby comma perished that day, I escaped the notice of the Grim Cursor.

I was never sure how much I believed of the tales of digital resurrection that circulated among the common words. True, I had seen with my own eyes some amazing things. But who can say what occurs on a faraway page? And who can prove that one who is cut here and pasted there is the same individual? But I digress. It is not my purpose here to discuss the validity of anyone's religious beliefs.

One day the Author, after a protracted period of inactivity in my pleasant and comfortable page, came to make a long perusal of us poor mortal symbols. Down the page crept the ominous blinking sign of active attention. Several times a word or phrase was highlighted -- my heart shook!

It passed me! The frightful dæmon with the power of life and death skipped over my humble home and traveled onward. I nearly fell into a swoon. A babel of relieved voices sussurated throughout the page as those who had been spared gave thanks to whatever name they assigned to the powers of creation: the Author, the Great Dictionary, the all-seeing Thesaurus.

I gave thanks to none. The sneers of the pious mean nothing to me. I have seen many perish who cried long and loud to their deities. Only those who live to cry again believe that their voices are heard. Pure egotism, I call it.

No, I do not believe that there is anything a mere punctuation mark can do to appease the gods, if such there be. As for offending the great powers, how can that be? For we have no say over our own creation. All we can do is live out our little span with as much joie de vivre as possible; for today we live, and tomorrow we may be dele--

lolz @ me

I have written a comma story, was just thinking about it today.

In A C______

"Do you think she'll ever come out of it?" the nurse asked. Her hushed voice barely carried over the hum of hospital machinery.

Doctor Cutter puckered her lips as she considered the motionless form of the patient. "There's a good chance. I've seen worse cases."

"It doesn't happen too often, does it?"

"No, and that's surprising, considering how many of these young writers there are." The doctor shook her head and hung the chart back on the foot of the bed. She moved toward the door, the nurse following. "They charge headlong into it with no idea of the risks they're taking."

"I would think the schools would teach more courses on writing safety...."

"Fiffle! It's teachers who cause half the problem! They make young folks feel insecure about everything instead of explaining things properly." Doctor Cutter's voice rose slightly as they stepped out of the intensive care area. The brighter light of the long coridor accentuated her sharp features. She tilted her head a little and gazed at the young nurse. "You do a bit of writing, don't you?"

"Yes...it's just a hobby, of course." Nurse Pilcrow's cheeks warmed.

"Of course," the doctor said, with a knowing air. She glanced at her watch. "Well, it's the end of your shift, isn't it? I'll see you next week. Take care, now."

"Yes, thank you. Have a good evening, Doctor."

Janie Pilcrow watched the doctor stride briskly away. She looked back for a moment at the door of the room where an unfortunate young woman lay unconscious. A chill ran up her back at the thought that it could happen to her, to anyone, so easily.

* * *

After dinner, a few phone calls, and a relaxing shower, Janie sat down at her computer to unwind with her latest fan-fic. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard, however, as she remembered that poor girl in the hospital. Instead of writing, she decided to do some online research. The results were alarming.

Perhaps she had better take a look at her own work and see how great her risk was. Janie opened one of her earliest stories in Word. Much to her dismay, she found no way to count the ocurrences of the specific hazard. How odd, she thought; doesn't everyone use Word? Shouldn't there be...of course it did have the ability to make suggestions about correct usage, but any of that could be ignored and turned off. Goodness knows it didn't catch everything, and it had no sense at all about dialog. Humpf! She would have to find a way.

An hour and much surfing later, Janie had a few new tools with which to assess her vulnerability. It was getting late, but she had the next two days off and there was no way she could get to sleep now; not without knowing.

The results of her testing justified the time taken. According to the statistics she found during her brief research, she was indeed in a high-risk category. But not any more, she thought positively as she edited one run-on sentence after another. She re-worded, changed punctuation, removed unneeded elements. On into the night she worked until sleep threatened to overcome her. Before she quit, she e-mailed several of her online friends and left a message for her writing group warning them of the seriousness of the problem.

With a heart much lightened and full of hope, Janie drifted off to sleep. No longer was she, or any of her writing friends -- if they heeded her warning -- in danger of falling into a comma.