Death by Grammar

By: Bubblegumwhore

Warnings: A bit mad…

Words: 473

(AN- Come on, I know I'm not the first to imagine this! Late night study sessions anyone?)

The page before me quivers, as does my bottom lip and the thesaurus in front of me takes this opportunity to growl loudly. Facial muscles twitching, I observe the green lined comma.

I am drowning in the curve of that comma, death by grammar. The period ending my run on sentence stares innocently, an orb of meaningless black devouring the page. Suddenly the words are alive, their inky faces blank, expressionless.

I am loosing my mind, throwing it far away, like a bone to the mad creatures I have created. My monsters, an abomination I have breathed life to today.

Slowly sinking. A special level of hell Dante left nameless. I am alone here, in the realm unceremoniously dubbed Webster.

My pen melts in my hand. The shock of real heat dropping through the air is cooled and I watch as an exclamation point drops heavily to the floor.

My mind spins and hurls me down through my own script. So flawed it cried out to me. The unclear antecedents tip their single syllable hats at me and I scowl.

Ungrateful existence! Oh to have an editor! The clock ticks when I blink, lazily it seems.

Pentameter be damned, I try not to be ill.

I observe my empty coffee cup. The substance as gloriously drained as my fingers while they type recklessly. I do not mind the words, clumsily misspelled. They glare a hideous red at me. The tell me they are wrong. As if I don't already know.

They watch as I deliberately ignore them. I know they can see me. My watch scrapes a melancholy tune. Come on!

The bars of my cave are formed from question marks. I don't think they know what to do with me. I close my eyes, a vain attempt to clear my drunken mind.

Why are the apostrophes moving? No matter, they can move all they want as long as they stay away from me.

Stay away you eager things, I think as they tap their fingers toward me. I look away. Die fowl things. My hand reaches for the backspace, but it is too late, their cruel hooks have found my neck.

Handles grab at my collar, bones strain in alarm. Mutiny of composition.

Away! I yell, and my words are lost to silence and breath. Breath I can no longer suck from the air. Caps and dots laugh as I fall, wordlessly screaming.

My heart is beating, my eyes are wide, and yet I cannot free myself from their rapturous clamp. I try to wriggle free but my mind is truing grey. I see red, the red of my miss spelling hours. I try to breath, I try to scream, but for once I don't have words.

Death at the hands of my mastery.

Death by grammar.