“The Writer obviously thinks very little of you pronouns,” the Arch Adjective said. “That is why he gave you so few letters. Face it, you are not that useful to Grammar.”
“Who are you to talk,” sniped the Principal Pronoun. “There are many words my length who are much more powerful than you. You are just an ornament. All you adjectives do is describe us and the nouns. You can hardly be called essential. You are nothing but fluff.”
“There is nothing wrong with being an ornament,” interjected the Superb Adverb proudly, sashaying forward. “Mind you, we adverbs prefer the term ‘enhancer’,” the Superb Adverb added, waving his palms in unison, like windshield wipers. “So what if we are optional? Although no one recognises our great powers, we are proud to enhance the verbs and adjectives. We are so powerful that we can even enhance ourselves!”
“Hush, Superb Adverb!” ordered the Viscount Verb. “No more drivel about how much everyone envies your great powers! We verbs loathe being ‘enhanced’ by you adverbs. You adverbs are upstarts. That is why so many of you are grovelling to Full Stop.”
“You cannot blame every adverb for the behaviour of a few,” insisted the Superb Adverb. “The ones who say they are conjuncts are just feisty.”
“Conjuncts,” the Crown Noun scoffed. “They are fooling no one with that name. They are just lowly adverbs.”
“The conjuncts claim to have powers like mine,” said the Captain Conjunction anxiously. “How can that be?”
“Maybe they took deep, cleansing breaths,” the Principal Pronoun sneered.
“Maybe they bonded with you,” the Superb Adverb chimed in.
Several members of the Parts’ Panel snickered, including the Crown Noun.
The Captain Conjunction gave a prolonged sigh. “Dear me—such bitterness. I urge everyone to focus on harmony,” the Captain Conjunction said.
“Please,” someone sniggered. “No more of your touchy-feely nonsense.”
All breathing ceased. Each member of the Parts’ Panel traced the sign of a “W” (upper-case in their minds) in the air and bowed humbly.
“Who dared to blaspheme against the Writer?” screeched the Crown Noun. “Who dared to utter Slang?”
“I am sure it was the Intrepid Interjection,” the Principal Pronoun cried. “He has been illegally trafficking Slang words so he could increase the number of interjections in Grammar.”
At last, the President Preposition broke his silence. “Forget about the Writer,” said the President Preposition. “We must end this Rift. This land needs both Full Stop and Comma.”
“Mmmm, Comma does give me work sometimes,” said the Intrepid Interjection.
“Sometimes,” the Captain Conjunction repeated. “Sometimes. You ungrateful clown. Comma is the one who makes you part of a sentence. Without her, you would be an outsider.” The Captain Conjunction inhaled in exasperation. “Comma is clearly the superior Mark,” the Captain Conjunction insisted. “When we work with her to join sentences, we ditch Full Stop. He becomes totally irrelevant. There is a reason Comma owns all the paper in Grammar.”
“And Full Stop owns the ink,” said the President Preposition. “Remember that. I repeat, this land needs both Comma and Full Stop. This Panel must do something about these so-called conjuncts. They are going to make this Rift worse. That could tear Grammar to shreds. If this Rift worsens, we could return to the time Pre-P.”
Around the room, stone tablets crashed to the floor. Quivering fingers could no longer hold them. Terror-filled eyes bulged. Thumping hearts ballooned, pressing against the cavities that held them. Surely, they would explode. A shroud of fear had enveloped the Parts’ Panel.
The time Pre-P, Pre-Punctuation. The age of destruction. An era of darkness. Grammar was but a wasteland.
