where the writers are
I once met a bad-ass word

I once met a bad-ass word. It towered and stomped, would not be bound by punctuation. Have you ever seen a comma severed at the tongue lick? A period pricking its own skin from fear so that its universe-within seeped out to stain and drip? This word that I once saw caused a whole military line of !!!!!!!'s to bow their heads and wither to ?. This word was quitch-wrought and aerie with disdain. Aloof, even. Swollen with its own sound, it shirked off paragraphs and pages, yearned to camp its black typography alone on the white page.

Eventually the first letter looked to the last and found it wanting. How pitiful it was at the finish, the capital convinced the others, trailing off into the open like shuddering fingers failing to grasp. The word turned rabid at that point, the deep animal of its own vigor consuming it. Letter after letter was evicted from the page till finally only the first remained, triumphant, its black staves monuments to its own glory. It had consumed the page.

Then a reader came along, picked up the page, and threw it away. No one wants to read a single letter. It made no sense.

The bad-ass word realized its error. Gathering its forsaken peers, it rearranged on the page until it was a complete word again, not a single letter. The other words were lured back. New promises made. Even punctuation was entreated to return. Periods sutured their rents, commas limped into their positions. It took a long time, but eventually the page was made right again, and it waited patiently for a reader to come along and derive meaning from the complex relationships it presented.