Behind The Plot

This sullied stewing mire

began quite innocently many

ellipsis ago when in

its tiny corner a

period was born into

a lowly cadet house,

one belonging to the

administrative Mid-Sentence periods.

The parents of this

little one, nicknamed Bairn,

were minor periods who

often worked in administration,

plying their trade among

the fine print of

legal contracts and the

ilk. Occasionally, they might

work in torts, but

not the major ones.

Young Bairn often followed

its parents, meeting the

more populous Lower Cases,

marvelling at their form

and innate ability to

organise themselves into coherent

groups. And Bairn saw

the Upper Case, who tended

to keep  to themselves

until required. Once, Bairn

was told off for

being in the wrong place.

“No period goes there,”

decried an Upper Case,

who simply glared at

the timid young period

with that haughty gaze

of one who knew

its place and reminded

others of it. The

Grammar Constabulary came and

told Bairn and parent

off and marched the

youngster away like some

common criminal, which it

weren’t. And thus was

born this innate gripe

within young Bairn that

would quickly fester. For

what else was there

to do at the

end of a sentence?

 

© 2017 L. Tafa

 

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Author: b20f08

I enjoy solo wargaming and writing. The first caters to the boy that never grew up; the latter satisfies a deep desire to communicate. Cheers.

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